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VOL. Ill 









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Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. 
^4^ M# Ballnntyne Press 






INDEX TO VOLS. I., II. AND III . . . .421 


VOL. Ill 

ANNE F. M. L. HARE. From Svjinton. (Photogravure] Frontispiece 








by Miss A. Dixon. (Photogravure'] . . . To face 32 









LADY AUGUSTA STANLEY. (Photogravure) . . To face 1 10 



S. REMY 137 




MARIA HARE. (Line engraving] .... To face 142 



LE PUY 150 

ROYAT 151 





gravure] ........ To face 158 






SESTRI .189 





MARY STANLEY. (Photogravure] .... To face 282 




BAR-LE-DUC . 334 






SIENA . 342 





NEMI 369 






CLUNY 384 




To face 394 



" The holidays of joy are the vigils of sorrow." Proverb. 

' Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a flower ; 
Nor every flower that blossoms fruit doth bear ; 
Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare ; 
Nor every stone in earth its healing power." 

Folgore da San Gemignano. 

" Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying, 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 
To-morrow will be dying." HERRICK. 

WE were for some time at the Deanery at 
Westminster in the summer of 1865. I think 
it was then that Archbishop Manning's con- 
secration took place. I heard much about it, 
though I was not there. Manning looked like 
the white marble statue of a saint, especially 
when the consecration was over and he moved 
slowly down the church, giving the benedic- 
tion. Newman was there also, and looked even 
more statuesque still. Wonderful was the self- 
controlling power which both these priests had. 



Many years before, as the Stanleys were going 
into St. Margaret's, there was a scuffle, and a 
huge black cat was driven out of the church. 
No one thought any more about it, and nobody 
saw any more of it, till, just as Newman was 
coming forward within the altar-rail, and was 
in the act of reading the Communion Service, 
the black cat sprang from one of the rafters of 
the roof, and came crashing down upon him, 
falling upon the hem of his white surplice. 
Newman's face never changed a muscle, and 
quietly, reverently, and slowly he went on read- 
ing the service without moving : but it must have 
seemed like a demon. 1 

During this visit to London I frequently saw, 
at the house of Lady Franklin (widow of the 
Arctic voyager) the gentle and pleasing Queen 
Dowager (Emma) of the Sandwich Islands. 2 
Her complexion was copper-coloured, but she 
was very good-looking, and simply but hand- 
somely attired in the dress of an English 
widow lady. She had greatly looked forward 

1 I do not think that this characteristic anecdote is preserved else- 

2 Emma, widow of King Kamehameha IV., who died Nov. 30, 
1863. She was born Jan. 2, 1836, being daughter of George Naca, 
a native chief, and of Fanny Yong. Charles Rooke, a rich doctor, 
adopted her, and left her all his fortune. Having seen three kings 
succeed her husband, and been equally honoured and respected by all, 
Queen Emma died in March 1885. 


to the fogs of England, having been used to 
nothing but the blue or copper-coloured sky 
of the Pacific, and was dreadfully disappointed 
when she saw the resplendent blue sky of the 
glorious day on which she arrived at South- 
ampton. " Why, I might just as well have 
been in the Sandwich Islands." She went over 
Westminster Abbey with far more knowledge 
of the tombs and persons they commemorate 
than I have seen in European royalties with 
whom I have* visited the Abbey in later days. 
In stepping back to allow the Queen to inspect 
the Coronation Chair, my mother had a bad 
fall on the pavement of Edward the Confessor's 
Chapel, and the concern and amiability she 
showed made her very attractive. 

Mr. Evans, of St. Andrew's, Wells Street, 
preached in Westminster Abbey at the evening 
service whilst we were at the Deanery. He 
preached on the destruction of the Temple, 
applying it to Westminster that we were not 
to be taken in by " the grandeur of the building, 
the solemn distances of the choir, the misty 
shadows of the roof, the windows by painters 
who dipped their pencils in the rainbow," &c. 
He described the different Jewish temples ; the 
first, rising from the heart of David and the 
hand of Solomon ; the second, of Zerubabel ; 


[l86 5 

the third built by Herod, and " certainly he 
was no saint." 

After the sermon was over I rushed upstairs, 


and was preaching it to the family with all its 
quaintnesses, when I saw Mary Stanley making 
most unaccountable faces, and turning round, 

1 From "Walks in London." 


I found Mr. Evans close behind me. The little 
dark figure had hirpled itself into the room and 
was listening all the time. 

Madame Mohl (whom I have described at 
Paris in 1858) was staying at the Deanery, 
where Arthur and Augusta were very fond of 
her, and always called her "Molina." She 
was most amusing. 

"When I was leaving Paris, I asked my friend M. 
Bourdon whether I could take anything to England 
for him, and he said that he was obliged to me, and 
that if I would take a very valuable Indian shawl, he 
would avail himself of my offer. However, before I 
left Paris, my little friend Barbara was starting for 
England, and she said to me that part of her box was 
empty, and that she could take anything I wanted, 
so I was very glad to give her M. Bourdon's Indian 
shawl. Now Barbara was in that dreadful accident at 
Staplehurst, and so were all her boxes, and when the 
train went over, the boxes went down into the water, 
and all the things were spoilt. At first I hoped it was 
not so bad, but ' the fact is that the shawl is spoilt,' 
wrote Barbara to me, and ever since that M. Bourdon 
and I have been en froid y which I am very sorry for, 
as we used to be such good friends." 

" Oh, that will soon pass," I said. 

" No, I am afraid it will not" said Madame Mohl, 
"for remember we are en froid, not merely en 
delicatesse. Being en delicatesse is easily remedied. 
'Je suis en delicatesse avec maman,' said a young 


lady to me. ... A little while ago I went to see the 
famous author Jules Janin. He could not attend to 
me. He was sitting at a table covered with papers 
and was writing notes. Messengers went off with the 
notes, and almost immediately came back with the 
answers, which were evidently written a very short 
distance off. This went on for some time, till at last 
Jules Janin looked up and said, 'Je vous demande 
mille pardons : faites bien d'excuses, Madame : c'est 
que je suis en delicatesse avec ma femme.' " 

One day Madame Mohl told me : 

" There was a handsome young woman married to 
a man who was in her own, which was a very lowly 
station of life, but after her marriage she consented to 
go a journey by sea with a family which she had pre- 
viously lived with. On the way the ship was wrecked, 
and she was one of the few persons saved. It was a 
desolate coast, and one of the officers who was saved 
with her fell in love with her she was a very pretty 
young woman and married her. Eventually they 
returned to England, and he died, leaving her a very 
fine place and a large fortune. Some years after, her 
favourite maid told her that she was going to be 
married, and, being attached to her maid, she desired 
her to bring her betrothed that she might see what he 
was like. When he came in, she recognised her own 
first husband. He did not know her again, but going 
upstairs, she put on an old shawl, and coming down 
said, ' Do you remember that shawl ? ' ' Yes,' he said, 
' it is the shawl which I gave to my wife on our 


wedding-day.' Then the lady revealed herself and 
took her husband back ; but he was a low man, and led 
her an awful life and drank dreadfully ; but on the 
whole that was a good thing perhaps, for it soon 
brought on delirium tremens, so that he died and she 
got rid of him. ' What a fool she was ever to let him 
know who she was ! ' was what I felt when I heard 
the story." 

" Well, I suppose she wanted to save her maid from 
marrying a man who was married already," I said ; " it 
would have been very wrong if she had not." 

"So the Bishop of Winchester seemed to think," 
said Madame Mohl, " for he was there when the story 
was told, and he was very much shocked and very 
grave, and he said, ' I think, Madame, that you should 
recollect our life is only a railway, and that it does not 
signify so much if we are comfortable in the railway, 
as at the home to which we are going.' But I told 
him I would rather be comfortable in the railway as 
well, and that I would certainly not have been such a 
fool and the Bishop of Winchester thought I was a 
very wicked person." 

In August and September my mother was 
very well, and had a succession of visitors, so 
that I was able to be away from her. 


" Hallingbury, August 10, 1865. The Archer 
Houblons* carriage met me at Bishop Stortford. This 
is a great red brick house in a large park, comfortable 


inside, but perfectly filled with oggetti too many things. 
The country round is dull, except ( the forest,' Hatfield 
Broadoake, which is a grand possession for a private 
family eight miles of green glades, old oaks, gnarled 
thorn-trees, and a small lake." 

" Mainsforth, August 13. I went to Cambridge on 
Friday, and saw the dear Hurstmonceaux Rectory 
pictures, which no one seemed to admire as we did, 
and the Hurstmonceaux books in Trinity College Lib- 
rary, where nobody ever reads them. I dined with 
the Public Orator, and the next day went to Ely. . . . 
The Cathedral is beautifully situated, a green sloping 
lawn with fine trees on one side, and it stands in a 
group of picturesque and venerable buildings Deanery, 
Palace, and Grammar-school." 

" Bamborough Castle, August 19. My mother will 
be well able to imagine me in this old castle : it is such 
a pleasure that she knows it all. As we drove up the 
hill, I could see dear old Mrs. Liddell sitting in her 
usual place in the great window of the Court-room. 
... I walked till dinner with Mr. Liddell on those 
delicious open sands, fitful gleams coming on with the 
sunset over Holy Island, and the sea covered with 
herring-boats. Mr. Liddell talked of his youth. ' The 
old Duchess of Gordon used to lead the ton in my day 
so exclusive it was ! She took care to marry all her 
daughters well. With regard to their looks she said, 
" Give me eyes and I will supply the rest." Every one 
used to struggle to get into Almack's. When Lady 
Jersey was abroad, she heard of some " little people" 


being admitted, and set off home directly, saying, " I 
am obliged to come back to keep you all from going 
wrong." Lady Londonderry and Lady Jersey were 
rival queens, and I am afraid rejoiced in each other's 
misfortunes when their daughters married ill.' 

" Yesterday we went to Holy Island Charlotte, Mrs. 
George Liddell, Miss Parke, and I crossing in a boat 
the emerald green waves, upon which great seagulls 


were floating in the most bewitching manner. We 
had luncheon in St. Cuthbert's Abbey, and by the time 
we were ready to return, the sea was like a lake, the 
lights most lovely in the still water, and the great 
castle looming against a yellow sky. We have had a 
very pleasant evening since. Mr. Liddell has just been 
telling me of an old man at Easington who said that 


the Bible was like a round of beef, it was always ' coot 
and coom again.' " 

" Ford Cottage, August 22. Lady Waterford had 
sent a kind invitation for the whole party at Barn- 
borough to come to luncheon, so they drove with me 
here sixteen miles. As we came down upon Ford 
all was changed. The gingerbread castle of Udolpho 
had marched back three centuries, and is now a grand 
massive building in the Audley End style, but with 
older towers. The ugly village had moved away from 
its old site to a hillside half a mile off, and picturesque 
cottages now line a broad avenue, in the centre of 
which is a fountain with a tall pillar surmounted by an 
angel. Schools for boys and girls have sprung up, a 
school for washing, adult schools, a grand bridge of 
three tall arches over the dens : it is quite magical. 

" The cottage is radiant gorgeous beds of flowers, 
smoothly shaven miniature lawns, and large majolica 
vases, while raised stands of scarlet geraniums look in 
at the windows. Dear old Lady Stuart received us, 
and then Lady Waterford came in. I felt rather shy 
at bringing such an immense party, but I believe the 
visit was really welcome to her, and all the guests 
were completely fascinated by her beauty, her kind- 
ness, and her goodness. . . . The castle will be mag- 
nificent inside. The ghost room is opened and a secret 
staircase found at the very spot from which the ghost 
was said to emerge. The Bamborough party went 
away after tea, and we had a delightful evening, Lady 
Waterford singing and talking by turns. ' Here are 
my two little choristers/ she said, showing her last 


picture. ' I painted them against the grass in early 
spring : it has all the effect of a gold ground. They 
like coming to me. They are the only children who 
have come to me who have not been sick : after the 
first hour, all the others used to turn perfectly livid 
and say " I'm sick." It was something in the room, 
and having to look fixedly at one object. Lady Marion 
Alford says it was just the same with the children who 
came to her. ... I have often seen skies like this in 
my drawing, but I suppose others don't I asked a 
little schoolgirl that came to me if she had ever seen 
anything like it. "No, never" she said. ... I should 
like my fountain drawn either with a black cloud behind 
the angel or with a very deep blue sky ; I have seen it 
both ways. . . . That is a sketch of a French town we 
went through, where the arms of the town are three 
owls. We asked a woman what it meant, and she 
said it was on account of a sermon. Some one betted 
the priest that he would not bring an owl into his 
sermon. So he preached on Dives and Lazarus, and, 
after describing the end of the rich man, said "II 
bou, II bou, II bou " (He boils, boils, boils). . . . When 
Ruskin came here, he said I would never study or take 
pains, so I copied a print from Van Eyck in Indian- 
ink ; it took me several months. When I took Ruskin 
into my school he only said, "Well, I expected you 
would have done something better than that." ' 

"But, in spite of Ruskin, my mother would be per- 
fectly enchanted with the schools, which are glorious. 
The upper part of the walls is entirely covered with 
large pictures, like frescoes, by Lady Waterford, of 
the ' Lives of Good Children' Cain and Abel, Abraham 



[I86 5 

and Isaac, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his Brethren, 
&c., all being really portraits of the Ford children, so 
that little Cain and Abel sit underneath their own 
picture, &c. The whole place is unique. The foun- 
tain in the centre of the village is worthy of Perugia, 


with its tall red granite pillar and angel figure standing 
out against the sky. All the cottages have their own 
brilliant gardens of flowers, beautiful walks have been 
made to wander through the wooded dene below the 
castle, and miles of drive on Flodden, with its wooded 

1 From " The Story of Two Noble Lives." 


hill and Marmion's Well. The whole country is wild 
and poetical deep wooded valleys, rugged open heaths, 
wind-blown pine-woods, and pale blue distances of 
Cheviot Hill; and Lady Waterford is just the person 
to live in it, gleaning up and making the most of every 


effect, every legend, every ballad, and reproducing them 
with her wonderful pencil, besides which her large 
income enables her to restore all the old buildings 
and benefit all the old people who have the good 
fortune to be within her reach." 

1 From "The Story of Two Noble Lives." 


"Ford Cottage, August 24. I have been walking 
in the dene to-day with Lady Stuart. She narrates 
very comically the effect which her two beautiful 
daughters produced when they came out into the 
world, and the way in which she saw a lady at a ball 
gaze at them, and then at her, and heard her say, 
' How beautiful they are, and isn't it strange, con- 
sidering ? ' Some one spoke of how Blake the artist 
used to go into a summer-house with Mrs. Blake, and 
practise for the Adam and Eve of his pictures, and 
how one day some visitors came, and it was very 
awkward. ' It would not have been so with the real 
Adam and Eve/ said Lady Stuart, ' for they could 
never dread any droppers-in.' In her anecdotes of 
old times and people, she is quite inexhaustible. Here 
are some of them : 

" ' Yes, we were at George the Fourth's coronation ; 
a great many other ladies and I went with Lady 
Castlereagh she, you know, was the minister's wife 
by water in one of the great state barges. We embarked 
at Hungerford Stairs, and we got out at a place called 
Cotton Garden, close to Westminster Hall. Lord 
Willoughby was with us. When we got out, we were 
looking about to see where all the ministers lived, 
&c., when somebody came up and whispered something 
to Lord Willoughby. He exclaimed " Good God ! " and 
then, apologising for leaving us, went off in a hurry 
looking greatly agitated. Queen Caroline was at that 
moment knocking at the door of the Abbey. She had 
got Lady Anne Barnard, who was with her, to get her 
a peer's ticket, which was given her, but it was not 
countersigned, and they would not admit her. She 


was in despair. She stood on the platform and wrung 
her hands in a perfect agony. At last Alderman Wood, 
who was advising her, said, " Really your Majesty had 
better retire." The people who had tickets for the 
Abbey, and who were to go in by that door, were all 
waiting and pressing for entrance, and when the Queen 
went away, there were no acclamations for her; the 
people thought she had no business to come to spoil 
their sport. 1 

" ' She had been married twenty-five years to the 
King then. They offered her 100,000 a year to stay 
quietly abroad, but she would come back at once and 
assert her rights as a queen. She died of that Corona- 
tion-day. She went home and was very ill. Then 
came a day on which she was to go to one of the 
theatres. It was placarded all about that she was to 
appear, and her friends tried to get up a little reaction 
in her favour. She insisted on going, and she was 
tolerably well received, but when she came home she 
was worse, and she died two days after. 

" ' The Duchesse de Berri * thought of marrying 
George IV. after her Duke was dead. People began 
to talk to her about marrying again. " Oh dear, no," 
she said, " I shall never marry again. At least there 
is only one person there is the King of England. 
How funny it would be to have two sons, one the 

1 Colonel Alexander Iligginson of the Grenadier Guards, cele- 
brated for his silence, was keeping the door. He said not a word in 
answer to all her entreaties, but dropped his sword as a barrier in 
front of the Queen. Note from Mrs. Owen Grant, niece of Colonel 
A. Higginson. 

2 Caroline, daughter of Francis I., king of Naples, widow of the 
Due de Berri, younger son of Charles X. 


King of France and the other King of England yes, 
and the King of England the cadet of the two." I 
never had courage to tell George IV. what she said, 
though I might have done it. He once said to me, 
when his going to France was talked of, " Oh dear, no, 
I don't want to see them. Poor Louis XVI II., he was 
a friend of mine, but then he's dead ; and as for Charles 
X., I don't want to see him. The Dauphine ! yes, I pity 
her; and the Duchesse de Berri, she's dreadful ugly, 
ain't she ? " I wish I had said to him, " Yes, but she 
does not wish your Majesty to think so." 

" ' I went down one day to St. Cloud to see the 
Duchesse de Berri ; she had been pleased to express 
a wish to see me. While I was there, her son rushed 
in. 1 " Come now," she said, " kiss the hand of Madame 
1'Ambassadrice. But what have you got there ? " she 
said. " Oh, je vous apportais mes papillons," said he, 
showing some butterflies in a paper case, and then, 
with an air of pride, " C'est une assez belle collection." 
The Duchesse laughed at them, and the boy looked so 
injured and hurt, that I said, " But it is a very nice 
collection indeed." Many years afterwards, only three 
years ago, Lou and I were at Venice, and we went to 
dine with the Chambords. He remembered all about 
it, and laughed, and said, " Apres, je regrettais mes 
papillons." For it was only a fortnight after I saw 
them that the Revolution took place, and the family 
had to fly, and of course the butterflies in their paper 
case were left behind in the flight. We were in the 
Pyrenees then, and indeed when the Duchesse sent for 

1 The Due de Bordeaux (Comte de Chambord). 


me, it was because she heard I was going there, and 
she wished to tell me about the places she had been to, 
and to ask me to engage her donkey-woman. 

" ' When they were at Venice, the Chambords lived 
in one palace, a very fine one, and the Duchesse de 
Berri in another farther down the canal, and the 
Duchess of Parma in a third. I did not see the 
Duchesse de Berri, though I should have liked to have 
done so. She was married then to a Marchese 
Lucchesi, by whom she had a quantity of grown-up 
sons and daughters. They were dreadfully extra- 
vagant not Lucchesi, he never was, but she was, and 
her sons-in-law. The Comte de Chambord paid her 
debts over and over again, but at last her things were 
obliged to be sold. 

" ' When we went to dine with the Chambords, we 
were warned that we must not allow anything to pass, 
or we should not get any dinner. We went at half- 
past four, and the soup came, and the Duke (de 
Bordeaux) was talking to me at that time, and, while I 
was listening, the soup was carried away, and so it was 
with nearly everything else. The party was almost 
entirely composed of French exiles. Lou wrote down 
their names at the time, but I have forgotten them now. 
At seven our gondola was ordered, and it came too late, 
the royalties were so punctual. The Duke and Duchess 
got up, and saying, " I wish you a pleasant evening," 
went out, and then we had nothing for it but to go 

taway. An old Venetian gentleman helped us out of 
the scrape, and gave us a lift home in his gondola, and 
very much aghast our gondoliers were when they met 
us in another boat upon the canal, while they were 



rowing with all their might to fetch us away. The 
royal family used to go in the evening to an island, 
which the Duke had bought for them to have exercise 

" ' They would never do for France : they have not 
the manners. She is ugly, 1 and then she dresses so 
badly no, she would never do. The only one who 
would do out of both sets is Aumale : he is really a 
fine prince. The Comte de Paris would of course 
naturally come first, but the Duke of Orleans used to 
say, ' I will never be a king by anything but popular 
election/ and that is against his family succeeding. 
All the members of the family look up to Aumale. 

" ' Did you ever hear about the old Due de Coigny 
and his arm ? His arm was shot during the Moscow 
campaign, and when it was amputated, numbers of 
others having their limbs taken off at the same time, 
he exclaimed, "Oh mon cher bras, qui m'a si bien 
servi, je ne puis jamais me separer de ce cher bras," 
and he insisted on its being found for him, which was 
highly inconvenient, and packed it up in a portmanteau, 
which he carried before him on horseback during the 
whole of the return. The soldiers quite hated that 
arm ; however, the Duke insisted upon it. At last, as 
he was crossing a ford in a carriage, the portmanteau 
rolled off his knee on to his foot and hurt it exceedingly, 
upon which he was so exasperated that in a fit of rage 
he opened the carriage door and kicked it out into the 
river. When he got to his night quarters, however, 
the Duke was in absolute despair "Oh mon pauvre 

1 The Archduchess Marie Therese, daughter of Francis IV,, Duke 
of Modena, 


bras ! mon pauvre cher bras ! " He had wished it to 
be buried with him; for was it not his most faithful 
servant ? he said. However, none of the soldiers were 
inclined to go and fish it up for him, and since then, 
poor man, he has had to be buried without it. 

" ' The wife of this Due de Coigny was Henrietta 
Dalrymple Hamilton, who brought him large estates. 
Her parents were miserable at her marrying a foreigner, 
from the idea that the estates would certainly then go 
out of the family; but of all his children only two 
daughters survive ; one is Lady Manvers, and the 
other married Lord Stair, and thus brought back the 
estates to the elder branch of the Dalrymples. The 
Due died last year, chiefly of grief for the death 
of another daughter who had married a Frenchman. 
His sister married Marshal Sebastiani and had five 
daughters. One of these was the murdered Duchesse 
de Praslin. 

" ' Madame de Praslin was one of a society that there 
was in Paris then, who used to laugh at anything like 
spiritualism or warnings from another world. Madame 
de Rabuteau was her great friend and partisan in these 
opinions. One day Madame de Praslin went with her 
husband to Choiseul Praslin. Her room was magnifi- 
cent, and she slept in a great velvet bed. In the middle 
of the night, she awoke with a sense of something 
moving in the room, and, lifting herself up in bed, saw, 
by the expiring embers of the fire, a figure, and as it 
turned, she saw, as it were, something green. She 
scarcely knew whether she was asleep or awake, and, 
to convince herself, stretched out her hand and en- 
countered something cold, hard, and which felt like 


steel. Then, widely awake, she saw the figure recede 
and vanish out of the room. She felt a thrill of horror 
and began to reason with herself. " Well," she said, " I 
have always opposed and laughed at belief in these 
things, and now one of them has come to me. Now 
what can it mean ? It can only mean that I am soon 
to die, and it has come as a warning." 

" ' Soon after Madame de Praslin returned to Paris, 
and at the house of Madame de Rabuteau she met 
all her former intimates. "Oh," said Madame de 
Rabuteau as she entered the room, " I am so glad 
you have come to help me to laugh at all these people, 
who are holding forth upon revelations from another 
world." " Indeed, I think we had better talk of some- 
thing else," said Madame de Praslin; "let us talk of 
something else." "Why, my dear, you used to be 
such an ardent defender of mine," said Madame de 
Rabuteau, "are you going over to the other side ? " But 
Madame de Praslin resolutely refused the subject and 
" parlons d'autre chose " was all that could be extracted 
from her. When the rest of the company was gone, 
Madame de Rabuteau said, " Well, now, what is it ? 
what can have come over you this evening ? why do 
you not laugh at their manifestations ? " " Simply 
because I have had one myself," replied very gravely 
Madame de Praslin, and she told what had happened, 
saying that she believed it to indicate her approaching 
death. Madame de Rabuteau tried to argue her out 
of the impression, but in vain. Madame de Praslin 
went home, and a few days after she was murdered 
in the Hotel Sebastiani. 

" ' When the Duke was taken, search was made, and 


amongst his things were found a green mask and a 
dagger. He had evidently intended to murder the 
Duchess at Choiseul Praslin, and it had been no spirit 
that she saw. 

" ' Madame de Feucheres was originally a Miss 
Sophia Dawes, the daughter of Mr. Dawes, who was 
a shipbuilder at Ryde and a very respectable man. 
The Due de Bourbon l saw her somewhere and took 
a great fancy to her, and, to facilitate an intimacy with 
her, he married her to his aide-de-camp, the Baron 
de Feucheres. But M. de Feucheres was a very 
honourable man. When the marriage was proposed to 
him, the Duke paying the dowry, he took her for a 
daughter of the Duke, and when he found out the real 
state of things, he separated from her at once, leaving 
all her fortune in her hands. It was supposed that 
Madame de Feucheres was in the Orleans interest, 
and that therefore the Duke would leave everything 
to the Due d'Aumale. I must say for the Duchesse 
de Berri that she was exceedingly good-natured about 
that. When there was a question about the Feucheres 
being received at the palace, she advocated it, for the 
sake of ma tante? and Madame de Feucheres came. 
But when the Revolution took place and Charles X. 
fled, the feelings of the Due de Bourbon were changed ; 
all his loyalty was roused, and he said that he must 

1 Louis Henri Joseph, Due de Bourbon, father of the Due d'Eng- 
hicn, the last member of the House of Conde 1 , who fought a duel 
with Charles X. in 1776. He married Marie Ther&se d'Orleans 
in 1770. 

2 Marie Amelie, Duchesse d'Orleans, afterwards Queen of the French, 
was daughter of Ferdinard I. , king of the Two Sicilies, and sister of 
Francis I. , father of the Duchesse de Berri. 


follow son rot. Nothing that Madame de Feucheres 
could say could change this resolution. They said 
that he hanged himself (August 27, 1830), immediately 
after hearing of the escape, but few believed it ; most 
thought that Madame de Feucheres had done it 
unjustly perhaps, because, on arriving at an inn 
where they were to sleep, the Duke observed that 
the landlord looked very dispirited, and knowing the 
cause, said, " I am afraid you have had some sad 
trouble in your family besides all these terrible public 
events." " Yes, Monseigneur," said the man, " my 
brother hanged himself yesterday morning." "And 
how did he do that ? " said the Duke. " Oh, Mon- 
seigneur, he hanged himself from the bolt of the 
shutter." " No, that is -impossible," said the Duke, 
" for the man was too tall." Then the landlord exactly 
described the process by which his brother had effected 
his purpose, raising himself upon his knees, &c., and 
it was precisely in that way that the body of the Duke 
was found in the chateau of St. Leu. Still most people 
thought that Madame de Feucheres had murdered him 
in his bed, and then hung up his body to avoid sus- 
picion. 1 

" ' It was said that the Duke could not have hanged 
himself, because he had hurt his hand and could not 
use it, and so could not have tied himself up, but Lord 
Stuart always said that he was very thankful that his 
evidence was not called for, because he had met the 

1 The Due de Bourbon left Madame de Feucheres two million 
francs, the chateau and park of St. Leu, the chateau and estate of 
Boissy, and all their dependencies : also a pavilion at the Palais 
Bourbon, valued at fifteen million francs. 


Duke at a dinner-party a little while before, when he 
showed that he could use his hand by carving a large 
turkey beautifully. That dinner-party was at St. Leu. 
Madame Adelaide had wanted to buy St. Leu, but the 
Duke said, " No ; yet never mind ; some day it will 
come into your family all the same." The Duke sat 
by Madame Adelaide at dinner and carved the turkey. 
" Pray do not attempt it, Monseigneur," she said, " for 
it will be too much for you," but he was able to do it 
very well. 

" ' In consequence of the Duke dying when he did, the 
Due d'Aumale got the Conde property. Madame de 
Feucheres came to England, and her brother, Mr. Dawes, 
took a place for her near Highcliffe. I never called 
on her, but Lord Stuart did. I remember Bemister, a 
carpenter, being sent for by her, and coming to me 
afterwards. He told me, " I felt very queer when she 
told me to hang up a picture of the Duke on the wall 
of her room, and before I thought what I was about I 
said, ' And where vf\\\you hang he ? ' " " And what in 
the world did she answer ? " I asked. " Well," he said, 
" I was looking very foolish, and she said, ' Why, you 
don't think I really did it, do you ? ' " " And what did 
you really think, Bemister?" I said. "Why, I don't 
think she did it," answered Bemister, " but I think she 
worrited of him into doing it himself," and I suspect 
this was pretty near the truth.' 

" I sleep at the castle, and at 10 A.M. go down to the 
cottage, which looks radiant in its bowers of flowers 
and shrubs, with a little burn tossing in front. Lady 
Waterford reads the lessons and prayers to the house- 
hold (having already been to church herself). Then 


comes breakfast in the miniature dining-room opening 
into the miniature garden, during which she talks 
ceaselessly in her wonderfully poetical way. Then I 
sit a little with Lady Stuart then draw, while Lady 
Waterford has her choristers and other boy models to 
sit to her. At two is luncheon, then we go out, Lady 
Stuart in a donkey-chair. Yesterday we went all over 
Flodden; to-day we are going to Yetholm, the gipsy 
capital. At half-past seven we dine, then Lady Water- 
ford paints, while I tell them stories, or anything^ for 
they like to hear everything, and then Lady Waterford 
sings, and tells me charming things in return. Here 
are some snatches from her : 

" ' I wish you had seen Grandmama Hardwicke. 1 
She was such a beautiful old lady very little, and 
with the loveliest skin, and eyes, and hair; and she 
had such beautiful manners, so graceful and so gracious. 
Grandmama lived till she was ninety-five. She died 
in '58. I have two oak-trees in the upper part of the 
pleasaunce which were planted by her. When she 
was in her great age, all her grandchildren thought 
they would like to have oak-trees planted by her, and 
so a row of pots was placed in the window-sill, and 
her chair was wheeled up to it, to make it as little 
fatigue as possible, and she dropped an acorn into each 
of the pots. Her old maid, Maydwell, who perfectly 
doted upon her, and was always afraid of her over- 
doing herself, stood by with a glass of port wine and a 
biscuit, and when she had finished her work, she took 

1 Elizabeth, wife of Philip Yorke, 3rd Earl of Hardwicke, and 
daughter of James, 5th Earl of Balcarres. 


the wine, and passing it before the pots, said, " Success 
to the oak-trees," and drank it. I am always so sorry 
that Ludovic Lindsay (Lord Lindsay's eldest boy) 
should not have seen her. Lord Lindsay wished it : 
he wished to have carried on further the recollection 
of a person whose grandfather's wife was given away 
by Charles the Second ; but it was Maydwell who 
prevented it, I believe, because she was too proud of 
her mistress, and did not think her looking quite so 
well then as she had looked some years before. The 
fact was, I think, that some of the little Stuarts had 
been taken to see her, and as they were going out 
they had been heard to say, " How awfully old she 

" ' Her father, Lord Balcarres, was what they call 
" out in the '45," and his man was called on to swear 
that he had not been present at a time when he 
was. The man swore it and Lord Balcarres got off. 
When they were going away safe he said to his man, 
" Well now, how could you swear such a lie ! " " Be- 
cause I had rather trust my sowle to God," said the 
man, " than your body to deevils." The first wife of 
Lord Balcarres's father J was Mauritia of Nassau, who 
was given away by Charles II. When they came to 
the altar, the bridegroom found that he had totally 
forgotten the ring. In a great fright he asked if one 
of the bystanders could lend him a ring, and a friend 
gave him one. He did not find out then that it 
bore the device of a death's-head and cross-bones, 
but Mauritia of Nassau found it out afterwards: she 

1 Colin, 3rd Earl of Balcarres. 


considered it a prophecy of evil, and she died within 
the year. 

" ' When he was almost an old man, Lord Balcarres 
went to stay with old Lady Keith. There were a 
quantity of young ladies in the house, and before he 
came Lady Keith said, " Now there is this old gentle- 
man coming to stay, and I particularly wish that you 
should all endeavour to make yourselves as pleasant 
to him as you can." They all agreed, but a Miss Dal- 
rymple l said, " Well, you may all do what you like, 
but I'll bet you anything you please that I'll make him 
like me the best of all of us," and so she did ; she made 
him exclusively devoted to her all the while he was there; 
but she never thought of anything more than this, and 
when he asked her to marry him, she laughed at the 
very idea. He was exceedingly crestfallen, but when 
he went away he made a will settling everything he 
possessed upon this Miss Dalrymple. Somehow she 
heard of this, and said, " Well then, after all, he must 
really care for me, and I will marry him," and she did. 
He was fifty-eight then, but they had eleven children. 
When Lady Balcarres was an old woman, she was 
excessively severe, indeed she became so soon after 
her marriage. One day some one coming along the 
road towards her house met a perfect procession of 
children of all ages, from three upwards, walking one 
behind the other, and the eldest boy, who came first, 
gipsy fashion carrying the baby on his back. They 
were the eleven children of Lady Balcarres making 
their escape from their mother, with the intention of 

1 Anne, only daughter of Sir Robert Dalrymple of Castleton. 


going out to seek their own fortunes in the world. It 
was one of the family of this Lady Balcarres who was 
the original of Lucy Ashton in the " Bride of Lammer- 
moor." The story is all true. The Master of Ravens- 
wood was Lord Rutherford. She rode to church on a 
pillion behind her brother that he might not feel how 
her heart was beating. 

" ' In consequence of Grandmama Hardwicke's great 
age, people used to be astonished at my aunt Lady 
Mexborough, when nearly eighty, running upstairs and 
calling out ' Mama.' When my aunt Lady Somers was 
at Bath, she sent for a doctor, and he said to her, 
" Well, my lady, at your age, you cannot expect to be 
ever much better." " At my age ! " she said, " why, my 
mother only died last year." The doctor was perfectly 
petrified with amazement. " It is the most wonderful 
thing," he said, " that I ever heard in my life." My 
grandmother's sisters were very remarkable women ; 
one was Lady Margaret Lindsay, the other was Lady 
Anne Barnard. Lady Anne was the real authoress of 
"Auld Robin Gray." She loved the tune, 1 but the 
original words were bad and unfit for a lady to sing, 
so she wrote, " Auld Robin Gray," though some one 
else has always had the credit of it.' 

" We have been walking this afternoon through the 
cornfields towards Etal. Lady Waterford recalled how 

1 The tune which then existed. The Hon. Mrs. Byron, a friend of 
Lady Anne Barnard, afterwards gave the words to Lieutenant William 
Leeves, ist Foot Guards, who composed the air to which they are now 
sung, in imitation of old Scotch music. Lieutenant Leeves afterwards 
took orders and became Rector of Wrington in Somersetshire, where he 
was the intimate friend of Mrs. Hannah More, who lived in his parish. 
He died in 1828. 



[I86 5 

Lady Marion Alford had shown her that all the sheaves 
leaning towards one another were like hands praying. 
To-night Mr. Williams dined at the cottage. Asking 
Lady Waterford about him afterwards, she said : 

" ' I do not know if Mr. Williams is old or young. 
I think he is like the French lady of whom it was said, 


" Elle n'avait pas encore perdu 1'ancienne habitude 
d'etre jeune." Apropos of this, Lady Gifford made such 
a pretty speech once. A little girl asked her, " Do tell 

1 From " The Story of Two Noble Lives." 


me, are you old or young? I never can make out," and 
she said, " My dear, I have been a very long time 

" ' The story of Mr. Williams is quite a pretty one. 
When Lord Frederick FitzClarence was in India, there 
was a great scandal in his government, and two of his 
aides-de-camp had to be sent away. He wrote to his 
brother-in-law to send him out another in a hurry, and he 
sent Mr. Williams. When he arrived, Lord Frederick 
was very ill, and soon after he died. After his death, 
Mr. Williams had the task of bringing Lady Frederick 
and her daughter home. Miss FitzClarence was then 
very much out of health, and he used to carry her up 
on deck, and they were thrown very much together. 
I believe the maids warned Lady Frederick that some- 
thing might come of it, but she did not see it. Before 
the end of the voyage, Mr. Williams and Miss Fitz- 
Clarence had determined to be married, but she decided 
not to tell her mother as yet. When the ship arrived 
at Portsmouth, the coffin of Lord Frederick had to 
remain all night on the deck, and Mr. Williams never 
left it, but walked up and down the whole time watch- 
ing it, which touched Lady Frederick very much. Still, 
when her daughter told her she was going to marry 
him, she was quite furious, contrary to her usual dis- 
position, which is an exceedingly mild one, and she would 
not hear of it, and sent him away at once. 

" ' It was the time of the war, and Captain Williams 
went off to the Crimea, but Miss FitzClarence grew 
worse and worse, and at last the difference between 
them made her so uncomfortable with her mother, that 
she went off to her grandmother ; but while there she 


continued to get worse, and at last it was evidently a 
case of dying, and when her mother went to her, she 
was so alarmed that she begged she would marry 
any one she liked ; she would consent to whatever she 
wished, and would send for Captain Williams at once. 
So Williams threw up everything, though it was con- 
sidered a disgrace in time of war, and came home, but 
when he arrived, poor Miss FitzClarence was dead. 

" ' Then Lady Frederick felt that she could not do 
enough for him, and she took him to live with her as 
her son. The relations, however, were all very angry, 
and the mauvaises langues said that she meant to 
marry him herself. So then she thought it would not 
do, and she got him an agency on Lord Fife's property 
and sent him to live alone. However, after a time, 
the agency somehow was given up, and he came back, 
and he always lives now with Lady Frederick. At 
Etal they always sit in church gazing into the open 
grave, which Lady Frederick will never have closed, 
in which his love is to be buried when she (the mother) 
dies, and is laid there also, and at Ford he sits by his 
love's dead head. 

" ' I think Captain Williams must be no longer young, 
because he is so very careful about his dress, and that 
is always a sign of a man's growing old, isn't it ? ' 

" The neighbours at Ford most of them seem to have 
' stories ' and are a perpetual source of interest. Lady 
Waterford says : 

" ' Grindon is a fine old manor-house near Tillmouth. 
Mr. Friar lives there. One morning he was a carpenter 
working down a coal-pit, and in the evening he was 
the master of Grindon : I believe an uncle left it him. 


" ' Then there was that Sir F. Blake whose wife was 
a Persian princess, who afterwards left a fine diamond 
necklace and two most magnificent Persian vases to 
the family. I was so sorry when those vases were 
sold for 40 : they were worth many hundreds. 

" ' Near Howtell is Thorpington, a farm of the Hunts. 
Sir J. Hunt was attainted for fighting in the Jacobite 
cause, and his property was all confiscated. His son 
was so reduced that he was obliged to become a groom, 
but he so gained the regard of his master, that, when 
he died, he left him all his horses. From that time 
the Hunts have taken to selling horses and their breed 
has become famous. They never sell a horse, however, 
under 200 : if they do not get that sum, they either 
shoot them or give them away.' " 

" Chillingham Castle , August 27, 1865. On Thurs- 
day afternoon I drove with Lady Waterford and Lady 
Stuart to Yetholm, twelve miles from Ford. The way 
wound through wild desolate valleys of the Cheviots, 
and the village itself is a miserable place. I drew the 
palace of the gipsy queen a wretched thatched hovel 
with a mud floor, but royalty was absent on a tinkering 

"On Friday I went in the pony-carriage to Etal. 
There I was shown into a room hung with relics of 
Lord Frederick FitzClarence and miniatures of George 
IV. and the royal family. Very soon Lady Frederick 1 
came in a figure like a nun, one straight fall of crape, 
without crinoline, enveloping her thin figure, and her 
hair all pushed back into a tight round white muslin 

1 Augusta, daughter of George, 4th Earl of Glasgow. 


cap, and coal-scuttle bonnet. She scarcely ever sees 
any one, so it was an effort to her to receive me, but 
she was not so odd as I expected. She talked about 
the place and then about wasps, and said that if 
Captain Williams was stung by a wasp, it had such 
an effect upon him that he swelled up all over and 
fell down perfectly senseless upon the ground that 
instant. In the hall was the dinner service of Nelson 
(painted with figures of Lady Hamilton as Amphytrite), 
which was given to Lord Frederick by William IV. 
Captain ^Williams went with me to the ruined castle 
of Etal and then along a walk above the Till, which 
was very beautiful, with weird old willows, high rocks, 
and lovely reaches of wood and water. 

" Yesterday morning I made a sketch of the door 
of the cottage, with all its flowers, &c., which I gave 
to Lady Stuart, much to her pleasure. She told me 
about Lord Waterford's death. On that morning, as 
always, Lady Waterford read to him a chapter in the 
Bible whilst he was dressing, and for that day it was 
the lament for Absalom. It contained the verse 
in which a pillar is raised up to him for 'he had 
no son to keep his name in remembrance;' so his 
widow determined to raise a pillar to his memory, 
and has done so in the beautiful angel-fountain at 

" In the middle of luncheon Lady Tankerville drove 
up, came to fetch me, and bringing Lady Bagot 1 and 
Lady Blanche Egerton 2 to see the castle. So at five 
I came away with them, and took leave of the cottage 

1 Lucia, eldest daughter of Lord Dover. 

2 Second daughter of the 1st Earl of Ellesmere, 


and its delightful inmates. ... It was a cold dreary 
day, and gusts of wind and rain blew from the Cheviots 
during our fourteen miles. Lady Tankerville drove." 

" Chillingham, August 29. Yesterday we all drove 
through pouring rain to Hulne Abbey in Alnwick 
Park, where we were glad of the shelter of the one 
unruined tower for our luncheon. Afterwards we 
drove through the park to the castle, which I had 
not seen since the reign of Algernon the Great and 
Eleanor the Good. Now we were the guests of Lady 
Percy, a kind pleasant person, and Lady Louisa. The 
rooms are grandly uncomfortable (except the library, 
which is an attractive room), but the decorations cost 

"August 30. Yesterday, as the family here are im- 
pervious to damp, we picknicked in the forest. Lady 
Tankerville made the fire and boiled the kettle ; Lady 
Blanche laid the cloth and cut bread and butter; a 
young Grey and I made the toast, and the little boys 
and girls caught fresh trout out of the burn close by. 
In the evening Lord Tankerville told us this story : 

f ' My father had a beautiful villa at Walton, which 
we have given up now. It was in the old days when 
we had to ride across Putney Heath to reach it. My 
father used to think it very odd that when he went 
into the stables to see his horses in the morning, 
they were all in a foam and perfectly exhausted, as if 
they were worn out with hard riding. One day he was 
coining home across Putney Heath, and he was bring- 
ing Lord Derby back with him. When they came near 

VOL. in. c 


the heath, he had said, "Well, now, we had better 
have our pistols ready, because highwaymen are often 
to be met with here." So they loaded their pistols, and 
it was not a bit too soon, for directly after a highway- 
man rode up to the carriage-window and demanded 
their money or their lives. As he spoke he recognised 
them, and saw also that my father recognised his own 
groom upon one of his own horses. In the moment's 
hesitation he drew back, and in that moment my father 
and Lord Derby fired. Several shots were exchanged 
on both sides, but at last came a moment's pause, 
during which Lord Derby cried out of the window to 
the postillion to ride forward, and he dashed on at full 
gallop. The highwayman fired into the back of the 
carriage, and Lord Derby and my father returned his 
fire by leaning out of the windows. At last the back 
of the carriage was quite riddled with shot, and the 
ammunition of those inside was quite exhausted, and 
then Lord Derby held out a white handkerchief as a flag 
of truce out of the window, and the highwayman rode 
up and they delivered up all their valuables to him. Of 
course my father never saw his groom again, and his 
horses were in much better condition ever afterwards 
at least those which were left, for the highwayman 
rode away upon the best horse in the stables/" 

" Howick, Sept. i, 1865. Yesterday I was able 
to stop the express at the private station (for Howick), 
whither Lord Grey sent for me. It was a drive of 
about a mile and a half, chiefly through shrubberies 
of hollies and rhododendrons, to this large square house 
with wings. It is most comfortable inside, with a 


beautiful library opening into a great conservatory. 
Lady Grey * is one of the severest-looking and one of 
the kindest-meaning persons I have ever seen. Lord 
Grey is little and lame, but gets about with a stick 
very actively. He is quite grey, but the very image 
of Lady Mary Wood. The rest of the party had put 
off coming for a day from different reasons, but I was 
not sorry to make acquaintance alone first with my 
host and hostess, and they were most pleasant, so that 
it was a very agreeable evening." 

" Sept. 2. Yesterday morning a great bell on the 
top of the house summoned all in it to prayers, which 
were read by Lord Grey in the breakfast- room open- 
ing on to very pretty terraces of flowers, with perfect 
shrubberies of sweet verbena, for the climate here is 
very mild. After breakfast I went down through the 
wood to the sea, not a mile distant, and a very fine bit 
of coast, with rich colour in the rocks and water, and 
Dunstanborough Castle on its crag as the great feature. 
The place reminds me a little of Penrhos. When I 
returned from driving with Lady Grey to Alnwick, the 
Belhavens arrived, and before dinner the Bishop of 
London and Mrs. Tait, and the Durhams." 

" Sept. 4. My dearest mother will like to know how 
intensely I have enjoyed being at Howick. The 
Greys make their house so pleasant and the life here 
is so easy. Then Lady Belhaven 2 is always celebrated 

1 Maria, daughter of Sir Joseph Copley of Sprotborough. 

2 Hamilton, daughter of Walter Campbell of Shawfield, younger 
sister of Lady Ruthven. 


as a talker, and it has been delightful to sit on the out- 
skirts of interesting conversations between my host 
and Sir George Grey or the Bishop. 

" On Saturday afternoon I drove with the Durhams 
and Lady Belhaven to Dunstanborough. The sea 
was of a deep Mediterranean blue under the great cliffs 
and overhanging towers of the ruined castle. Lord 
Durham l and I walked back three miles along the 
cliffs a high field-walk like the old one at East- 

" On Sunday the Bishop preached at the little church 
in the grounds. It has been rebuilt and decorated 
with carvings by Lady Grey and her sisters-in-law. 
In the chancel is the fine tomb of the Prime Minister 
Lord Grey. I went with Durham afterwards all over 
the gardens, which are charming, with resplendent 
borders of old-fashioned flowers ; and after afternoon 
church, we all went down through the dene to the sea, 
where there is a bathing-house, with a delightful room 
fitted up with sofas, books, &c., just above the waves. 
All the French herring- fleet was out, such a pretty 
sight. The Bishop read prayers in the evening to the 
great household of forty-eight persons. He is a very 
pleasant, amiable Bishop. 

" I enjoyed seeing so much of Durham ; no one 
could help very much liking one who is very stiff with 
people in general, and most exceedingly nice to one- 
self. But Lady Durham 2 is always charming, so per- 
fectly naive, natural, and beautiful. She is devoted 

1 My third cousin, George, 2nd Earl of Durham. 

2 Beatrix, second daughter of the Marquis of Abercorn. She died 
Jan. 1871. 


to her husband and he to her. Some one spoke of 
people in general not loving all their children. She 
said : ' Then that is because they do not love their hus- 
bands. Some women think no more of marriage than 
of dancing a quadrille; but when women love their 
husbands, they love all their children equally. Every 
woman must love her first child : the degree in which 
they love the others depends upon the degree in which 
they love their husbands.' 

" Sitting by her at dinner, I asked if she had ever 
read ' Les MiseVables ' ? ' No. When I was confirmed, 
the clergyman who was teaching me saw a French 
novel on the table, and said, " My dear child, you don't 
read these things, do you ? " I said " No," which was 
quite true, for it belonged to my French governess, 
and he then said, "Well, I wish you never would. 
Don't make any actual promise, for fear you should 
not keep it, but don't do it unless you are obliged ; " 
and I never have.' 

" I spoke to her of the inconsistency involved by 
the confirmation ceremony, by which young ladies re- 
nounced the pomps and vanities of the world, being 
generally the immediate predecessor of their formal 
entrance upon them. 

" ' Yes ; I never thought of that. But certainly my 
pomps and vanities were of very short duration. I 
went to three balls, two tea-parties, and one dinner, 
and that was all I ever saw of the world ; for then I 
was married. One year I was in the school-room in 
subjection to every one, ordered about here and there, 
and the next I was free and my own mistress and 


" ' And did not you find it rather formidable ? ' I said. 
' Formidable to be my own mistress ! oh no. One thing 
I found rather formidable certainly. It was when a 
great deputation came to Lambton to congratulate 
George upon his marriage, and I had to sit at the end 
of the table with a great round of beef before me. I 
wanted them not to think I was young and inexperi- 
enced. I wanted to appear thirty at least ; so I would 
carve : and then only think of their saying afterwards 
in the newspaper paragraphs, "We are glad to learn 
that the youthful Countess is not only amiable but 
intelligent." I was glad that they should think I was 
amiable, but when they said I was intelligent, I was 
perfectly furious, as if George's wife could possibly 
have been anything else. 

" ' I was brought up a Tory, but as long as I can 
remember I have felt myself a Radical. I cannot bear 
to think of the division between the classes, and there 
is so much good in a working-man. I love working- 
men : they are my friends : they are so much better 
than we are. 

" ' When my little George of four years old such a 
little duck he is ! was with me at Weymouth, I told 
him he might take off his shoes and stockings and 
paddle in the water, and he went in up to his chest ; 
and then the little monster said, " Now, mama, if you 
want to get me again, you may come in and fetch me, 
for I shan't come out." I was in despair, when a work- 
ing-man passed by and said, " Do you want that little 
boy, ma'am ? " and I said "Yes," and he tucked up his 
trousers and went in and fetched George out for me ; 
but if the man's little boy had been in the water, I 


am afraid I should not have offered to fetch him out 
for him. 

" ' And when I was going to church at Mr. Cumming's 
in Covent Garden (I daresay you think I'm very wrong 
for going there, but I can't help that), it began to pour 
with rain, and a cabman on a stand close by called 
out, " Don't you want a cab, ma'am ? " I said, " Yes, 
very much, but I've got no money." And the cabman 
said, " Oh, never mind, jump in ; you'll only spoil your 
clothes in the rain, and I'll take you for nothing." 
When we got to the church door, I said, " If you will 
come to my house you shall be paid," but he would 
not hear of it, and I have liked cabmen ever since. 
Oh, there is so much good in the working-men ; they 
are so much better than we are.' " 

" Winton Castle, N.B., Sept. 5, 1865. My sweetest 
mother will like to think of me here with the dear old 
Lady Ruthven. 1 I left Howick at mid-day yesterday, 
with the Bishop and Mrs. Tait and their son Crauford, 
an Eton school-boy. It had been a very pleasant visit 
to the last, and I shall hope to repeat it another year, 
and also to go to the Durhams. We had an agreeable 
journey along the cliffs. I had become quite intimate 
with the Taits in the three days I was with them, and 
liked the Bishop very much better than Mrs. Tait, 
though I am sure she is a very good and useful 
woman. 2 At Tranent Lady Ruthven's carriage was 

1 Mary, widow of the 5th Lord Ruthven, and daughter of Walter 
Campbell of Shawfield. 

2 Catherine, daughter of Archdeacon Spooner. Her memoirs were 
published by her husband, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1879. 


waiting for me. I found her in a sadly nervous state, 
dreadfully deaf, and constantly talking, the burden of 
her refrain being 

* Mummitie mum, mummitie mum, 
Mummitie, mummitie, mummitie mum.' 

But in the evening she grew much better, and was 
like other people, only that she would constantly walk 
in and out of the dark ante-chambers playing on a 
concertina, which, as she wore a tiara of pearls and 
turquoises, had a very odd effect in the half light ; 
and then at eleven o'clock at night she would put on 
her bonnet and cloak and go off for a walk by her- 
self in the woods. Charming Miss Minnie Fletcher of 
Saltoun is here. She told me that 

" Sir David Brewster and his daughter went to stay 
with the Stirlings of Kippenross. In the night Miss 
Brewster was amazed by being awakened by her father 
coming into her room and saying, t My dear, don't be 
alarmed, but I really cannot stay in my room. It may 
be very foolish and nervous, but there are such odd 
noises, such extraordinary groanings and meanings, 
that I positively cannot bear it any longer, and you 
must let me stay here. Don't disturb yourself; I shall 
easily sleep on the sofa.' 

" Miss Brewster thought her father very silly, but 
there he stayed till morning, when he slipped away to 
his own room to dress, so as not to be found when the 
servant came to call his daughter. When the maid 
came she said, ' Pray, ma'am, how long are you going 
to stay in this house ? ' Miss Brewster was surprised, 
and said she did not know. ' Because, ma'am, if you 


are going to stay, I am sorry to say I must leave you. 
I like you very much, ma'am, and 1 shall be sorry to 
go, but I would do anything rather than again go 
through all I suffered last night ; such awful groanings 
and meanings and such fearful noises I can never 
endure again.' Miss Brewster was very much annoyed 
and laughed at the maid, who nevertheless continued 
firm in her decision. 

" In the afternoon Miss Brewster had a headache, 
and at length it became so bad that she was obliged to 
leave the dinner-table and go up to her room. At the 
head of the stairs she saw a woman a large woman 
in a chintz gown, leaning against the banisters. She 
took her for the housekeeper, and said, ' I am going 
to my room : will you be so kind as to send my maid 
to me ? ' The woman did not answer, but bowed her 
head three times and then pointed to a door in the 
passage and went downstairs. Miss Brewster went 
to her room, and after waiting an hour in vain for her 
maid, she undressed and went to bed. When the maid 
came up, she asked why she had not come before, and 
said she had sent the housekeeper for her. ' How very 
odd,' said the maid, ' because I have been sitting with 
the housekeeper the whole time.' Miss Brewster then 
described the person she had seen, upon which the 
maid gave a shriek and said, ' Oh, then you have seen 
the ghost.' The maid was in such a state of terror, 
that when Mrs. Stirling came up to inquire after her 
headache, Miss Brewster asked her about the woman 
she had seen, when, to her surprise, Mrs. Stirling looked 
quite agonised, and said, ' Oh, then there is more misery 
in store for me. You do not know what that ghost 


has been to me all through my married life.' She then 
made Miss Brewster promise not to tell the persons who 
slept in the room pointed at, that theirs was the room. 
It was a Major and Mrs. Wedderburn who slept there. 
Mrs. Stirling and Miss Brewster then both wrote out 
accounts of what had happened and signed and sealed 
them. Before the year was out, they heard that the 
Wedderburns were both killed in the Indian Mutiny." 

" Winton Castle, Sept. 8. My visit here has been 
very pleasant indeed. The Speaker and Lady Charlotte 
Denison came on Tuesday afternoon with the Bel- 
havens. He is a fine-looking elderly man, with a won- 
derful fund of agreeable small-talk. Lady Charlotte 1 
is very refined, quite unaffected, and very pretty still : 
they are both most kind to me. Miss Fletcher has 
been here all the time to help Lady Ruthven, for whom 
it is well that she has such a kind, pleasant great- 
niece only a mile off, to come and help her to amuse 
all her guests, as she has had fifty-six parties of people 
staying in the house in the last year. We saw a large 
party of the great-great nephews and nieces of Lady 
Ruthven and Lady Belhaven on Wednesday, when we 
went to spend the afternoon at Lord Elcho's. It is a 
fine place, Amisfield a huge red stone house in a 
large park close to the town of Haddington, where 
there is a beautiful old cathedral, but in ruins, like all 
the best Scotch churches. Lady Elcho 2 has the stately 
refinement of a beautiful Greek statue. Her children 

1 Daughter of the 4th Duke of Portland, afterwards Viscountess 

2 Lady Anne Anson, second daughter of the 1st Earl of Lichfield. 


are legion, the two eldest boys very handsome and 
pleasant. We went over the house, with old tapestry, 
&c., to be seen, and the gardens with fine cedars, and 
then all Lord Wemyss's twenty-four race horses were 
brought out in turn to be exercised round the court- 
yard and admired : after which we had Scotch tea 
scones, cakes, apricot-jam, &c. 

" I have made rather friends with John Gordon, 1 a 
younger brother of Lord Aberdeen, who has been stay- 
ing here. He is a second Charlie Wood in character, 
though only eighteen, and I have seldom seen any one 
I liked as well on short acquaintance. His family are 
all supposed to be dreadfully shy, but he seems to be 
an exception. 

" Yesterday Lady Belhaveri and Lady Ruthven went 
to Edinburgh, and I stayed with Miss Fletcher, and 
walked with her in the afternoon to Saltoun, where we 
had tea with Lady Charlotte and saw the curiosities. 
Lady Charlotte Fletcher 2 said : 

" 'The French royal family were often here at Saltoun 
when they were at Holyrood Charles X. and the 
Duchesse d'Angouleme, and the Duchesse de Berri and 
her daughter, the Due and Duchesse de Guise and the 
Due de Polignac. . . . The Duchesse d'Angouleme and 
the Due de Polignac used to go down to the bridge 
in the glen and stay there for hours : they said it re- 
minded them so much of France, the trees and the 
water. The Due de Polignac said our picture of the 
leave-taking of Louis XVI. and his family contained 

tgures more like than any he had seen elsewhere. 

1 Afterwards 7th Earl of Aberdeen. 

2 Fourth daughter of the 7th Earl of Wemyss. 


We turned it to the wall and locked the door when 
they came, for fear the Duchesse d'Angouleme should 
see it, but the little Mademoiselle de Berri was playing 
hide-and-seek through the rooms, and she got in by 
the outer door, and it was the first thing she observed, 
and she insisted on seeing it. ... She did me a little 
drawing, and left it behind her. 

" ' The family were very fond of coming here, because 
my father, Lord Wemyss, had been kind to them when 
they were here during the first Revolution. On the 
Duchesse de Berri's birthday, she was asked what she 
would like to do in honour of it, and she chose a day 
at Saltoun. It was very inconvenient their all coming 
with the children at a few hours' notice, such a large 
party, but she wrote a pretty note, saying what a 
pleasure it would be to see her old friends again, and 
another afterwards, saying what a delight it had been, 
so that we were quite compensated.' 

"On Sunday, when it was church-time, Lady Ruthven 
said, ' We'll just gang awa to the kirk and see what 
sort of a discoorse the minister makes; and if he 
behaves himself, well we'll ask him up to dinner ! ' 
She sat in kirk, with her two dogs beside her, in a 
kind of chair of state just under the pulpit, where she 
might have been mistaken for the clerk. She is as 
demonstrative in church as elsewhere, and once when 
Miss Fletcher came unexpectedly into the gallery after 
she had been some time without seeing her, she called 
out, ' Eh, there ye are, Minnie, my darling/ before the 
whole congregation, and began kissing her hands to 
her. When a child screamed in kirk, and its mother 
was taking it out, the minister interrupted his dis- 


course with, ' Na, bide a wee : I'm no that fashed wi' 
the bairn.' ' Na, na,' said the mother, ' I'll no bide : 
it's the bairn that's fashed wi' ye.' Talking afterwards 
of the change of feeling with which church-services 
were usually regarded now-a-days, Lady Charlotte 
Fletcher said : 

" ' Old Lady Hereford, my aunt, was quite one of the 
old school. She had a large glass pew in church, and 
the service was never allowed to begin till she had 
arrived, settled herself, and opened the windows of her 
pew. If she did not like the discourse, she slammed 
down her windows. After the service was over, her 
steward used to stand by the pew door to receive her 
orders as to which of the congregation were to be 
invited to dine in her hall that day.' 

" While the party were talking of the change of 
manners, Lord Belhaven said : 

" ' I just remember the old drinking days : 1 they were 
just dying out when I entered the army. Scarcely any 
gentlemen used to drink less than two bottles of claret 
after dinner. They used to chew tobacco, which was 
handed round, and drink their wine through it, wine 
and tobacco-juice at the same time. A spittoon was 
placed between every two gentlemen. It was universal 
to chew tobacco in country-houses : they chewed it 
till they went in to dinner, and they began again 
directly the ladies left the room, when tobacco and 
spittoons were handed round. 

" 'There were usually the bottles called " Jeroboams " 
on the table, which held six bottles of port. The old 

1 The " custom more honoured in the breach than the observance," 


Duke of Cleveland 1 always had his wine-glasses made 
without a foot, so that they would not stand, and you 
were obliged to drink off the whole glass when you 
dined with him. 

" ' I remember once dining at a house from which I 
was going away the next morning. I got to bed my- 
self at twelve. When I came down to go off at eight, 
I asked when the other gentlemen had left the dining- 
room. "Oh," said the servant, "they are there still." 
I went in, and there, sure enough, they all were. 
When they saw me, they made a great shout, and 
said, " Come, now, you must drink off a bumper," and 
filled a tumbler with what they thought was spirits, 
but to my great relief I saw it was water. So I said, 
" Very well, gentlemen, I shall be glad to drink to 
your health, and of course you will drink to mine," 
so I drank the water, and they drank the spirits.' " 

" Castlecraig } Noblehouse, Sept. 9. I came out this 
morning by the railway to Broomlee, a pretty line, 
leading into wild moorland, and at the station a dog- 
cart met me, arid brought me six miles farther, quite 
into the heart of the Pentlands. The ascent to this 
house is beautiful, through woods of magnificent alpine- 
looking firs. Addie Hay 2 was waiting for me. You 
would scarcely believe him to be as ill as he is, and 
he is most cheerful and pleasant, making no diffi- 
culties about anything. He is often here with my 
present host, Sir William Carmichael." 

1 William Henry, 1st Duke of Cleveland, who died in 1842. 

2 Adam, fourth son of Sir Adam Hay of Haystoun, who had been 
one of my greatest friends at Christ Church. He died May 1871. 


" Winton Castle, Sept. 10. Yesterday I saw the 
beautiful grounds of Castlecraig green glades in the 
hills with splendid pines, junipers, &c., and part of 
the garden consecrated as a burial-ground, with moss- 
grown sculptured tombs of the family ancestors on 
the green lawn. 

" At Eskbank Lady Ruthven met me, and I came on 
with her to Newbattle. It is an old house, once an 
abbey, lying low in a large wooded park on the banks 
of the Esk a fine hall and staircase hung with old 
portraits, and a beautiful library with long windows, 
carved ceiling, old books, illuminated missals, and 
stands of Australian plants. Lady Lothian is very 
young and pretty, 1 Lord Lothian a hopeless invalid 
from paralysis. She showed me the picture gallery 
and then we went to the garden most lovely, close 
to the rushing Esk, and of mediaeval aspect in its 
splendid flowers backed by yew hedges and its stone 
sundials. After seeing Lady Lothian's room and 
pictures, we had tea in the garden. The long drive 
back to Winton was trying, as, with the thermometer 
at 70, Lady Ruthven would have a large bottle of 
boiling water at the bottom of the close carriage. 

" Lady Ruthven is most kind, but oh ! the life with 
her is so odd. One day a gentleman coming down 
in the morning looked greatly agitated, which was 
discovered to- be owing to his having looked out of 
his window in the middle of the night, and believing 
that he had seen a ghost flitting up and down the 
terrace in a most ghastly clinging white dress. It 

1 Lady Constance Talbot, daughter of the I9th Earl of Shrews- 


was the lady of the castle in her white dressing-gown 
and night-gown ! " 

" Wishaw, Sept. 14. I came here (to the Belhavens) 
after a two days' visit to Mrs. Stirling of Glenbervie, 
whence I saw Falkirk Tryste the great cattle fair of 
Scotland. It was a curious sight, an immense plain 
covered with cattle of every description, especially 
picturesque little Highland beasts attended by drovers 
in kilts and plumes. When I saw the troops of horses 
kicking and prancing, I said how like it all was to Rosa 
Bonheur's ' Horse Fair/ and then heard she had been 
there to study for her picture. 

"We dined yesterday at Dalzel, Lady Emily 
Hamilton's, l a beautiful old Scotch house, well restored 
by Billings. To-day is tremendously hot, but though 
I am exhausted by the sun, I am much more so by 
all the various hungers I have gone through, as we had 
breakfast at half-past ten and luncheon at half-past five, 
and in the interval went to Bothwell Lord Home's, 
beautiful shaven lawns above a deep wooded ravine 
of the Clyde, and on the edge of the slope a fine 
old red sandstone castle." 

" Lagaray, Gareloch, Sept. 17. How I longed for 
my mother on Friday in the drive from Helensburgh 
along a terrace on the edge of the Gareloch, shaded by 
beautiful trees, and with exquisite views of distant grey 
mountains and white-sailed boats coming down the loch ! 
I was most warmly welcomed by Robert Shaw Stewart 2 

1 Daughter of the 7th Earl of Leven. 

2 A Roman friend, brother of Sir Michael Shaw Stewart. 


and his wife. . . . Yesterday we went an immense 
excursion of forty-five miles, seeing the three lakes 
Lomond, Long, and Gareloch." 

" Car stairs House, Lanarkshire, Sept. 18. Nothing 
could exceed the kindness of the Shaw Stewarts, and 
I was very sorry to leave them. The Gareloch is quite 
lovely, such fine blue mountains closing the lake, with 
its margin of orange-coloured seaweeds. . . . The 
Monteith family were at luncheon when I arrived at 
this large luxurious house the guests including two 
Italians, one a handsome specimen of the Guardia 
Nobile Count Bolognetti Cenci, a nephew by many 
greats of the famous Beatrice. After luncheon we were 
sent to the Falls of the Clyde Cora Linn a grand 
mass of water foaming and dashing, which the Italians 
called 'carina'!" 

Before returning home, I went again to 
Chesters in Northumberland, to meet Dr. 
Bruce, the famous authority on "The Roman 
Wall" of Northumberland, on which he has 
written a large volume. It was curious to find 
how a person who had allowed his mind to 
dwell exclusively on one hobby could see no 
importance in anything else. He said, " Rome 
now chiefly interesting as illustrating the 
Roman Wall in. Northumberland, and as for 
Pompeii, it was not to be compared to the 
English station of Housesteads." 

At the end of September I returned home, 



and had a quiet month with the dear mother, 
who was now quite well. I insert a fragment 
of a letter from a niece who had been with her 
in my absence, as giving a picture of her peace- 
ful, happy state at this time : 

" Auntie and I have spent our evenings in reading 
old letters and journals, which have made the past seem 
nearer than the present. Hers is such a sweet peaceful 
evening of life. There have been many storms and 
sorrows, but her faith has stood firm, and she is now 
calmly waiting her summons home. Oh ! I pray that 
she may be spared to us yet awhile, now so doubly 
dear to us, the one link left with the loved and 

We left Holmhurst at the beginning of 
November, and went to Italy by the Mont 
Cenis, with Emma Simpkinson, the gentle 
youngest sister of my Harrow tutor, as our 
companion. Fourteen horses dragged us over 
the mountain through the snow in a bright 
moonlight night, during the greater part of 
which I crouched upon the floor of the carriage, 
so as to keep my mother's feet warm inside my 
waistcoat, so great was my terror of her having 
any injury from the cold. 


" Spezia, Nov. II, 1865. The day was most lovely 
on which we left Genoa, and so was the drive along 


the coast, reminding us of Mentone in its beauty the 
hills covered with olive-woods and orange-groves, the 
mountains and rocky bays washed by the bluest of 
blue waves. We dined at Ruta, a very pretty place 
in the mountain, and slept at Chiavari. Saturday was 
no less beautiful, the tramontanes keen when we met it, 
like a March day in England, but the sun so burning, it 
quite acted as a restorative as we wound up the Pass 
of Bracco after Sestri lovely Sestri. We had the car- 
riage open, and so could enjoy the views around and 
beneath us, though the precipices were tremendous. 
However, the road was good, and occasionally in some 
of the worst places there was a bit of wall to break the 
line at the edge. Nothing could be more grand than the 
views of the billowy mountains with the Mediterranean 
below. At Borghetto was our halting-place, and then 
we had a rapid descent all the way here, where we 
arrived at half-past six." 

" Pisa, Nov. 14. To continue my history. Sunday 
was again a splendid day, and the Carrara mountains 
most lovely, especially at sunset. On Monday we 
drove to Porto Venere, and spent the morning in draw- 
ing at the ruined marble church. We dined, and at 
half-past five set out, reaching Pisa at half-past seven. 
And here was a merciful preservation given to me, 
where, to use the words of my favourite travelling Psalm 
(xci.), though my feet 'were moved/ the angels had 
surely ' charge over me.' Augustus had just helped me 
down from the train and turned to take the bags out of 
the carriage. When he re-turned to look after me, I 
lay flat on the ground in the deep cutting of the side 


[I86 5 

railway, into which, the platform being narrow, un- 
finished, and badly lighted, I had fallen in the dark. I 
believe both Augustus and Lea thought I was dead at 
first, so frightful was the fall, yet, after a little, I was 
able to walk to the carriage, though of course much 
shaken. Three falls have I had this year in the waves 
of the Atlantic, in Westminster Abbey, and at Pisa and 
yet, thanks be to God, no bones have been broken." 


At Pisa we stayed at the excellent Albergo 
di Londra, which was kept by Flora Limosin, 
the youngest daughter of Victoire 2 and foster- 
sister of Esmeralda. Victoire herself was living 
close by, in her own little house, filled with 
relics of the past. I had not seen her since 
Italima's death, and she had many questions 
to ask me, besides having much to tell of the 
extraordinary intercourse she had immediately 

i From " Central Italy." 
2 Madame Victoire Ackermann. See vol. i. 

i86 5 ] 



after our family misfortunes with Madame de 
Trafford the facts of which she thus dictated 
to me : 

Felix and Victoire followed Italima from Geneva 
to Paris. Victoire says " We rejoined Madame Hare 
at the house of Madame de Trafford. I went with 


her and Mademoiselle to the station in the evening. 
Madame Hare did all she could to console me. It 
was arranged that Constance should accompany them, 
because she was Miss Paul's maid. I had no presen- 
timent then that I should never see Madame Hare 

1 From "Central Italy." 


again. After they were gone, we remained at the 
house of Baize, our son-in-law, at the end of the Fau- 
bourg S. Germain, but every day I went, by her desire, 
to see Madame de Trafford, at the other end of the 
Champs Elysees. She was all kindness to me. She 
did all she could to console me. When she had 
letters from Madame Hare, she read them to me : 
when I had them, I read them to Madame de Trafford. 
Matters went from bad to worse. One day Madame 
de Trafford had a letter which destroyed all hope. It 
was three days before she ventured to read it to me. 
I have still the impression of the hour in which she told 
me what was in it. She made me sit by her in an arm- 
chair, and she said, ' II ne faut pas vous illusionner, 
Victoire : Madame Hare ne rtviendrajamaisj elle est 
absolument ruinee.' I remained for several hours un- 
conscious : I knew there was no hope then. I was only 
sensible that Madame de Trafford gave me some strong 
essence, which restored me in a certain degree. Then 
she did all she could to console me. It was the most 
wonderful heart-goodness possible. She took me back 
that day to my son-in-law's house. I was thinking 
how I could break it to Felix : I did not venture to tell 
him for a long time. At last he saw it for himself; he 
said, ' II y'a quelque chose de pire a apprendre, ou vous 
me cachez quelque chose, Victoire,' and then I told 
him. The next day Madame de Trafford said that she 
could not endure our sufferings. ( Apres trente ans de 
service, apres tant de denouement, elle ne pouvait pas 
souffrir que nous irions a la mendicite. Vous n'avez 
rien,' she said, 'je le sais plus que vous.' I did not 
like her saying this. ' Yes, we have something,' I 


said; 'we are not so badly off as that.' 'Tais-toi, 
Victoire, vous n'avez rien,' she repeated, and she was 
right, it was her second-sight which told her. She 
bade me seek in the environs of Paris for a small 
house, any one I liked, in any situation, and she would 
buy it for me. If there was a large house near it, so 
much the better that she would buy for herself. She 
said she knew I could not live there upon nothing, but 
that she should give me an annuity, and that Felix ' 4 
cause de son rhumatisme, 1 must have a little carriage. 
I was quite overwhelmed. ' Mais, Madame, nous ne 
meritons pas cela,' I said. ' Oui, Victoire, je sais que 
vous le meritez bien, etje le veux? I said it was im- 
possible I could accept such favours at her hands. 
She only repeated with her peculiar manner and in- 
tonation l je le veux? The next day we both went 
to her. Her table was already covered with the notices 
of all the houses to let in the neighbourhood of Paris. 
' Nous allons visiter tout cela,' she said, ' nous aliens 
choisir.' Both Felix and I said it was impossible we 
could accept such kindness, when we could do nothing 
for her in return. ' Est que je veux acheter votre 
amide" ? ' she said. She repeatedly said that she wished 
nothing but to come and see us sometimes, and that 
perhaps she should come every day. Thus we went on 
for fifteen days, but both Felix and I fek it was im- 
possible we could accept so much from her; besides, 
Felix suffered so much from his rheumatism, and he 
felt that the climate of Pisa might do him good ; besides 
which, our hearts always turned to Pisa, for it seemed 
as if Providence had willed that we should go there, in 
disposing that Madame Jacquet, who had a claim to 


our house for her life, should die just at that time. 
We made a pretext of the health of Felix to Madame 
de Trafford, but it was fifteen days before she would 
accept our decision. ' Eh bien, vous voulez toujours 
aller a votre masure la bas a Pise/ said Madame de 
Trafford. She called our house a * masure.' ' Eh bien, 
j'irai avec vous, je veux aussi aller a Pise, moi.' She 
wrote to M. Trafford, who came over to take leave of 
her, as he always does when she leaves Paris, and she 
arranged her apartment. . . . 'Oh, comme c'est une 
femme d'ordre, et comme son appartement est beau, le 
plus beau que j'ai jamais vue, meme a la cour.' Then 
she left Paris with us. 

" Voila sa provenance the going to Pisa was in 
order that she might undertake all the expenses of 
our journey. Quand elle est chez elle, elle est tres 
e"conome, mais quand elle voyage, elle voyage grande- 
ment. Where another person would give two francs, 
Madame de Trafford gives ten. She is always guided 
by her seconde vue : she reads the character in the 
face. She wished us to travel first-class, and she 
insisted on taking first-class tickets for us all, but 
Fdlix absolutely refused to go in anything but a 
second-class carriage. I travelled with Madame de 
Trafford. We went first to Turin. Thence, 'pour 
donner distraction a Fe"lix, etant ancien militaire/ 
Madame de Trafford insisted on taking us to the 
battle-fields of Solferino and Magenta. Elle nous a 
fait visiter tout cela, et vraiment grandement. At 
last we reached Pisa. It was then that Madame de 
Trafford first revealed to us that she intended to rent 
our house. She insisted upon paying for it, not the 


usual rent, but the same that she paid for her beautiful 
apartments in the Hotel de la Metropole, and nothing 
could turn her from this ; she was quite determined 
upon it. Every day she ordered a large dinner ; 
although she only ate a morsel of chicken herself, 
everything was served and then removed. Flix 
served her. It was in order that we might have food. 
It was the same with wine : she always had a bottle 
of wine, Madeira or whatever it might be : a new 
bottle was to be uncorked every day ; she only drank 
half a glass herself, but the same bottle was never 
allowed to appear twice. 

" Up to that time I had never entirely believed in her 
second-sight. It was just after we arrived in Pisa that 
I became quite convinced of it. I was astonished, on 
her first going into our house, to see her walk up to 
one of the beds and feel at the mattresses, and then 
she turned to me and said, ' On vous a vole*, Victoire ; 
vous avez mis ici de la bonne laine, et on a mis la 
malsaine et vieille laine.' I did not believe her at 
the time. I had sent money to Pisa to pay for the 
re-stuffing of those very mattresses : afterwards I un- 
ripped the mattresses, and found it was just as she 
said. From time to time in England we had bought 
a little linen, because the house was let without linen. 
M. Hare had left a thousand francs to Fe*lix and me. 
This was paid to us in London ; therefore we had 
spent it in carpets and linen. The carpets we sent at 
once to Pisa. The linen was also sent, but it was left 
packed up in boxes under the care of the woman who 
looked after the house. Soon after we arrived, Madame 
de Trafford asked if I had any linen. I said 'Yes,' and 


going to the boxes, unlocked them, and brought the 
sheets and towels which she required. She felt at 
them, and then she said, ' On vous a vole encore ici, 
Madame Victoire ; vous avez mis de telles et telles 
choses dans une telle et telle boite.' ' Oui, c'est ainsi,' 
I replied. ' Eh bien, on vous a vole telles et telles 
choses dans une telle et telle boite.' I rushed to look 
over the boxes, and it was just as she said. The third 
time was when we went to Florence, for she would 
take me to spend some days with her at Florence. 
She bought me a beautiful black silk dress to wear 
when I went with her, and it was one of her prtven- 
ances that we should not go to any hotel I had been 
in the habit of going to, for she wished me to be 
entirely with her sans aucune remarque. When we 
went to Florence, the two large boxes Madame de 
Trafford had brought with her were left in the salon at 
Pisa. When we came back she said, with her peculiar 
intonation, ' Je vous prie, Victoire, de compter mes 
mouchoirs : savez-vous combien j'ai ? ' ' Mais oui, 
Madame; vous en avez cinque paquets avec des 
douzaines en chaque.' ' Eh bien, comptez-les : on m'a 
vole trois dans un paquet, deux dans un autre,' &c. 
Effectivement it was just as Madame de TrafFord had 
said : it must have been the same person who had 
taken my linen before. 

" It was always the custom at the convent of S. 
Antonio, which is close to our house, that any poor 
people who chose to come to the door on a Saturday 
should receive something. Madame de Trafford, from 
her window, saw the people waiting, and asked me 
what it meant. When I told her, she desired me to 


go to the convent and find out exactly what it was they 
received. Madame de Trafford will never be contra- 
dicted, so I went at once. When I came back I told 
her that it was one kreutz or seven centimes. She 
thought this much too little, and bade me give each of 
the people a paul. I sent the money down to them. 
The result was that next time, instead of ten, two or 
three hundred poor people came. They all received 
money. It made quite a sensation in the quarter. 
The house used to be quite surrounded and the streets 
blocked up by the immense crowds at that time. It 
became necessary to fix a day. Thursday was ap- 
pointed, that was the day on which Madame de Trafford 
gave her alms. One day from the window she saw a 
poor woman with a child in her arms. ' Voila une qui 
est bien malheureuse/ she said ; ' descendez, je vous 
prie, et donnez lui de 1'argent sans compter.' One 
cannot disobey Madame de Trafford. I went down 
directly, and gave a handful of silver to the woman, 
shutting the door upon her thanks and leaving her 
petrified with astonishment. 

" One day we went to Leghorn by the eleven-o'clock 
train (for she always made me go with her). We 
descended at the hotel, and then she desired me to 
order a carriage ' le plus bel equipage qu'on pourrait 
avoir.' Soon afterwards the carriage came to the door : 
it was a very poor carriage indeed, and the coachman 
wore a ragged coat and a wide-awake hat. She seemed 
surprised, and asked me if I could not have done better 
for her than that, and, knowing her character, I was 
quite angry with the master of the hotel for ordering 
such a carriage; but in reality there was no other, all 


the others were engaged. So at length we got in, but 
when we had gone some distance she began to fix her 
eyes upon the driver, and said, ' Mais est-ce qu'on peut 
aller avec un cocher qui a un trou comme ga dans son 
habit ? ' and she desired him to drive back to the hotel. 
As we went back she said to me, ' Ce pauvre jeune 
homme doit etre bien malheureux, dites lui de venir a 
Thotel.' When we got back to the inn, she desired me 
to procure everything that was necessary to dress the 
young man, everything complete, and of the best. But 
I could not undertake myself to dress the young man, 
so I asked the master of the hotel to do it for me. At 
Leghorn this is not so difficult, because there are so 
many ready-made shops. So the landlord procured a 
complete set of clothes, coat, trousers, waistcoat, boots, 
hat, everything, and Madame de Trafford gave orders 
that he should be shaved and washed and sent in. to 
her. When he came in, the change was most extra- 
ordinary; he was such a handsome young man that I 
should not have known him. But Madame de Trafford 
only turned to me and said, ' Mais je vous ai ordonne* 
de lui procurer un habillement complet, et est-ce que 
vous pensez que avec un habit comme ga, il peut porter 
cette vilaine vieille chemise ? ' for she perceived directly 
that they had not changed his shirt, which I had never 
thought of. The shirt was procured, but there was 
always something wanting in the eyes of Madame de 
Trafford. ' Mais que fera ce jeune homme/ she said, 
's'il est enrhume, quand il n'a pas de mouchoirs de 
poche,' and then I was obliged to get other shirts and 
socks, and cravats and handkerchiefs in short, a 
complete trousseau. And then a commoner dress was 


wanted for the morning : and then the tailor was 
ordered to come again with greatcoats. Of these he 
had two; one cost much more than the other, but 
Madame de Trafford chose that which cost the most. 

" Le jeune homme regardait tout ga comme un reve. 
II ne le croyait pas, lui, et il disait rien du tout : il 
laissa faire. II disait apres a Felix qu'il pensait que 
c'etait des mystifications, et il ne croyait pas a ce qu'il 

"At last, when all was completed and paid for in his 
presence, four o'clock came, and he mounted on his 
box and drove us to the station. All the little boys in 
the street, who had known him in his old dress, ran 
along by the side of the carriage to stare at him. At 
last, when we reached the station and were actually 
going off, he began to believe, and flung himself on his 
knees before all the people in his gratitude to Madame 
de Trafford. ' Je me suis soulagee d'un poids en laissant 
ce jeune homme ainsi,' said Madame de Trafford to me. 

"After this," continued Victoire, "came the great 
floods in the marshes near Pisa. When Madame de 
Trafford heard of the sufferings which they caused, 
she bade me order a carriage and drive out there with 
her. We drove as far as we could, and then we left 
the carriage and walked along a little embankment 
between the waters to where there were some cottages 
quite flooded, from which some poor women crept out 
along some planks to the bank on which we were. 
Before we left the hotel, Madame de Trafford had 
said, ( Mettez vos grandes poches ' (because she had 
made me have some very large pockets made, very 
wide and deep, to wear under my dress and hold her 


valuables when we travelled), and then she had said 
that I was to fill them up to the brim with large 
piastres, without counting what I took. I had shovelled 
piastres into my pockets by handfuls till I was quite 
weighed down. I did not like doing it, but I was obliged 
to do as she bade me. Then she said, ' Have you 
taken as much as your pockets will hold ? I wish them 


to be filled to the brim.' When we arrived and saw 
the poor women, she said, ' Donnez-leur des piastres, 
mais donnez-les par poignets, et surtout ne comptez 
pas, ne comptez jamais.' So I took a large heap of 
piastres, and put them into the hands of Madame de 
Trafford that she might give them to the women. 
Then she began to be angry { Je vous ai dit de les 
donner, je ne les veux pas.' So I began to give a 
handful of piastres to one woman and another, all 
without counting; even to the children Madame de 

1 From "Central Italy." 


Trafford desired me to give also. At first they were 
all quite mute with amazement; then the women began 
to call aloud to me, ' E chi questa principessa bene- 
detta, caduta dal cielo ? dite chi 6 che possiamo rin- 
graziarla.' ' Qu'est ce qu'ils disent done,' said Madame 
de Trafford. ' Mais, Madame, ils demandent quelle 
princesse vous etes qu'ils puissent vous remercier.' 
' Dites les que je ne suis pas princesse/ said Madame 
de Trafford, ' que je ne suis qu'une pauvre femme faite 
en chair et os comme eux.' 

"Then Madame de Trafford asked them if there 
were no more poor people there, and they went and 
fetched other poor women and children, till there was 
quite a crowd. To them also she ordered me to give 
piastres ' toujours sans compter ' till at last, through 
much giving, my pockets were empty. Then Madame 
de Trafford was really angry ' Je vous ai dit, Madame 
Victoire, de porter autant que vous pouviez, et vous 
ne 1'avez pas fait.' ' Mais, Madame, vous ne m'avez 
pas dit de mettre quatre poches, vous m'avez dit de 
mettre deux poches : ces deux poches taient remplis, 
a present les voila vides.' 

" When we were turning to go away, all the people, 
who had not till that moment believed in their good 
fortune, fell on their knees, and cried, 'Oh, Signore, 
noi ti ringraziamo d'avere mandate questa anima 
benedetta, e preghiamo per ella.' ' Mais retournez bien 
vite & la voiture, mais montez done bien vite, Madame 
Victoire,' said Madame de Trafford, and we hurried 
back to the carriage; and the coachman, concerning 
whom she had taken care that he should not see what 
had happened, was amazed to see us coming with all 


this crowd of poor women and children following us. 
When we were driving away, Madame de Trafford 
said, ' Quel jour heureux pour nous, Madame Victoire, 
d'avoir soulage tant de misere ; quel bonheur de pouvoir 
faire tant de felicite avec un pen d'argent.' " 

After remaining many weeks at Pisa with 
Victoire, Madame de Trafford had accom- 
panied her to Rome, whither she went in 
December 1859 to arrange the affairs of 
Italima at the Palazzo Parisani, and thence, 
having fulfilled her mission, and seen Victoire 
comfortably established in her Pisan home, 
Madame de Trafford had returned to Paris. 

In 1865 the journey from Pisa to Rome was 
still tiresome and difficult. We went by rail to 
Nunziatella, and there a cavalcade was formed 
(for mutual protection from the brigands), of 
six diligences with five horses apiece, with 
patrols on each carriage, and mounted guards 
riding by the side. The cholera had been 
raging, so at Montalto, one of the highest 
points of the dreary Maremma, we were 
stopped, and those who were " unclean " i.e., 
had omitted to provide themselves with clean 
bills of health at Leghorn were detained for 
eight days' quarantine. We had obtained 
" clean " bills, from the Spanish Consul, 


grounded upon the hotel bills of the different 
places we had slept at since crossing the Alps, 
and, with others of our kind, were taken into 
a small white-washed room filled with fumes 
of lime and camphor, where we were shut up 
for ten minutes, without other hurt than that 
any purple articles of dress worn by the ladies 
came out yellow. Most dreary was the long 
after-journey through a deserted region, with- 
out a house or tree or sign of habitation, till 
at 10 P.M. we came in sight of the revolving 
light of Civita Vecchia, beautifully reflected in 
the sea. Then I had to watch all the luggage 
being fumigated for three midnight hours. 
However, November 18 found us established 
in Rome, in the high apartment of the Tempi- 
etto (Claude Lorraine's house), at the junction 
of the Via Sistina and Via Gregoriana, with 
the most glorious view from its windows over 
all the Eternal City, and a pleasant English- 
woman, Madame de Monaca, as our landlady. 
Hurried travellers to Rome now can hardly 
imagine the intense comfort and repose which 
we felt in old days in unpacking and establish- 
ing ourselves in our Roman apartment, which 
it was worth while to make really pretty and 
comfortable, as we were sure to be settled 
there for at least four or five months, with 



usually far more freedom from interruptions, 
and power of following our own occupations, 
than would have attended us in our own home, 
even had health not been in question. Most 
delightful was it, after the fatigues and (on my 
mother's account) the intense anxieties of the 
journey, to wake upon the splendid view, with 
its succession of aerial distances, and to know 
how many glorious sunsets we had to enjoy 
behind the mighty dome which rose on the 
other side of the brown-grey city. And then 
came the slow walk to church along the sunny 
Pincio terrace, with the deepest of unimaginable 
blue skies seen through branches of ilex and 
bay, and garden beds, beneath the terraced wall, 
always showing some flowers, but in spring 
quite ablaze with pansies and marigolds. 

The first time we went out to draw was to 
the gardens of S. Onofrio, where, when we were 
last here, we used to be very much troubled 
by a furious dog. We rang the bell, and the 
woman answered ; she recognised us, and, with- 
out any preliminary greetings, by an association 
of ideas, exclaimed at once, "II cane e morto." 
It was very Italian. 

So many people beset me during this winter 
with notes or verbal petitions that I would go 
out drawing with them, that at last I wrote 


on a sheet of paper a list of the days (three 
times a week) on which I should go out sketch- 
ing, and a list of the places I should go to, and 
desiring that any one who wished to go with 
me would find themselves on the steps of the 
Trinita de' Monti at 10 A.M., and sent it round 
to my artistic acquaintance. To my astonish- 
ment, on the first day mentioned, when I ex- 
pected to meet one or two persons at most, 
I found the steps covered by forty ladies, in 
many cases attended by footmen, carrying their 
luncheon-baskets, camp-stools, &c. I intro- 
duced four ladies to each other that they might 
drive out together to the Campagna, and I 
generally tried to persuade those who had 
carriages of their own to offer seats to their 
poorer companions. For a time all went 
radiantly, but, in a few weeks, two- thirds of 
the ladies were " en delicatesse" and, at the 
end of two months, they were all " en froid" 
so that the parties had to be given up. Of 
the male sex there was scarcely ever any one 
on these sketching excursions, except myself 
and my cousin Frederick Fisher, 1 who was 
staying at Rome as tutor to the young Russian 

1 His mother was Susan, daughter of William Leycester, my 
mother's first cousin. She was murdered during the Indian Mutiny, 
with her husband and child. 


Prince, Nicole Dolgorouki. He was constantly 
with us during the winter, and was a great 
pleasure from his real affection for my mother, 
who was very fond of him. 

In the spring Esmeralda came to Rome, and 
I used often to go to see her in the rooms at 
Palazzo Parisani. She was very fragile then, 
and used to lie almost all day upon an old 
velvet sofa, looking, except for the heavy 
masses of raven hair which were still un- 
covered, almost like an uncloistered nun, with 
her pale face and long black dress, unrelieved 
at the throat, and with a heavy rosary of large 
black beads and cross at her waist. 

From my JOURNAL. 

"Rome, Dec. 21, 1865. Cardinal Cecchi died last 
week, and lay in state all yesterday in his palace, 
on a high bier, with his face painted and rouged, wear- 
ing his robes, and with his scarlet hat on his head. 
Cardinals always lie in state on a high catafalque, 
contrary to the general rule, which prescribes that 
the higher the rank the lower the person should lie. 
Princess Piombino lay in state upon the floor itself, 
so very high was her rank. 

" The Cardinal was carried to church last night with 
a grand torchlight procession, which is always con- 
sidered necessary for persons of his rank ; but it is 
expensive, as everything in Rome costs double after 


the Ave Maria. The fee for a frate to walk at a funeral 
is four baiocchi in the daytime, but after the Ave 
it is eight baiocchi. When the Marchesa Ponziani 
was taken to church the other day, all the confra- 
ternities in Rome attended with torches. 1 

"To-day at IO A.M. the Cardinal was buried in the 
church at the back of the Catinari. According to old 
custom, when he was put into the grave, his head-cook 
walked up to it and said, 'At what time will your 
Eminence dine ? ' For a minute there was no response, 
and then the major-domo replied, ' His Eminence will 
not want dinner any more (iwn vuol altro}. Then 
the head-footman came in and asked, 'At what time 
will your Eminence want the carriage ? ' and the major- 
domo replied, ' His Eminence will not want the carriage 
any more.' Upon which the footman went out to 
the door of the church, where the fat coachman sat 
on the box of the Cardinal's state carriage, who said, 
'At what time will his Eminence be ready for the 
carriage ? ' and when the footman replied, ' La sua 
Eminenza non vuol altro,' he broke his whip, and 
throwing down the two pieces on either side the 
carriage, flung up his hands with a gesture of despair, 
and drove off. 

"The other day Mrs. Goldsmid was in a church 
waiting for her confessor, who was not ready to come 
out of the sacristy. While she was waiting, two men 
came in carrying something between them, which she 
soon saw was a dead frate. His robe was too short, 
and his little white legs protruded below. They put 

1 The famous S. Francesca Romana had been a member of the 
Ponziani family. 


him on a raised couch with a steep incline and left him, 
and her agony was that he would slip down and fall 
off, and then that the priests would think she had done 
it. She became so nervous, that, as she kept her 
eyes fixed on the body, it seemed to her to slip, slip, 
slip, till at last she made sure the little man was 
coming down altogether, and going to the sacristy 
door, she rang the bell violently, and entreated to be 
let out of the church. 

" Mrs. Goldsmid says that the Pope, Pius IX., can- 
not stop spitting even when he is in the act of cele- 
brating mass. . . . Being very jocose himself, he likes 
others to be familiar enough to amuse him. The 
other day a friend asked Monsignor de Merode why 
the Pope was so fond of him : he said it was because, 
when he saw the Pope in a fit of melancholy, he always 
cut a joke and made him laugh, instead of condoling 
with him. 

"The Pope is always thoroughly entertained at the 
stories which are circulated as to his ' evil eye ' and 
its effects, as well as those about the ' evil eye ' of 
the excellent and strikingly handsome Monsignor 
Prosperi. When the fire occurred in the Bocca di 
Leone, and the Pope was told of it, he said, 'How 
very extraordinary, for Monsignor Prosperi was out 
of Rome, and I was not there.' 

" When the Pope, who does not speak good French, 
was talking of Pusey, he said, ' Je le compare a une 
cloche, qui sonne, sonne, pour appeler les fideles a 
1'eglise, mais qui n'entre jamais.' 

" I think there can scarcely be any set of men whose 
individuality is more marked than the present Cardinals. 


. . . Antonelli's manner in carrying the chalice in 
St. Peter's is reverent in the extreme. Cardinal 
Ugolini, who is almost always wiih the Pope, never 
fails to ruffle up his hair in walking down St. Peter's 
or the Sistine." 

" Christmas Day. The Pope heard of the death of 
his sister, an abbess, this morning, just as he was 
going to be carried into St. Peter's, but the procession 
and the chair were waiting, and he was obliged to go 
The poor old man looked deadly white as he was 
carried down the nave, and no wonder." 

"January 15, 1866. Went, by appointment, with 
Mrs. Goldsmid to the Church of SS. Marcellino e Pietro 
the church with a roof like that of a Chinese pagoda, 
in the little valley beneath St. John Lateran. Inside 
it is a large Greek cross, and very handsome, with 
marbles, &c. The party collected slowly, Mrs. De 
Selby and her daughter, Mrs. Alfred Montgomery, 
Madame Sainte Aldegonde, the Bedingfields, a French 
Abbe, Mrs. Dawkins, and ourselves. Soon a small 
window shutter was opened to the left of the altar, 
and disclosed a double grille of iron, beyond which 
was a small room in the interior of the monastery. 
In the room, but close to the grille, and standing side- 
ways, with lighted candles in front of it, was a very 
beautiful picture of the Crucifixion. It was much 
smaller than life, and seemed to be a copy of Guide's 
picture in the Lucina. The figure hung alone on the 
cross in the midst of a dark wind-stricken plain, and 
behind it the black storm clouds were driving through 


the sky, and beating the trees towards the ground. 
As you looked fixedly at the face, the feeling, of its 
intense suffering and its touching patience seemed to 
take possession of you and fill you. We all knelt in 
front of it, and I never took my eyes from it. Very 
soon Mrs. Goldsmid said, ' I begin to see something ; 
do you not see the pupils of its eyes dilate ? ' Mrs. 
Montgomery, in an ecstasy, soon after said, ' Oh, I 
see it : how wonderful ! what a blessing vouchsafed to 
us ! See, it moves ! it moves ! ' Mrs. De Selby, who is 
always sternly matter-of-fact, and who had been look- 
ing fixedly at it hitherto, on this turned contemptu- 
ously away and said, ' What nonsense ! it is a complete 
delusion : you delude yourselves into anything ; the 
picture is perfectly still.' Mrs. Dawkins now declared 
that she distinctly saw the eyes move. Lady Beding- 
field would not commit herself to any opinion. The 
French Abbe saw nothing. 

" Meanwhile Madame Ste. Aldegonde had fallen into 
a rapture, and with clasped hands was returning 
thanks for the privilege vouchsafed to her. ' Oh mon 
Dieu ! mon Dieu ! quelle grace ! quelle grace ! ' Shortly 
after this the French Abbe saw it also. t II n'y a pas 
la moindre doute,' he said ; ' il bouge les yeux, mais le 
voila, le voila.' They all now began to distress them- 
selves about Mrs. De Selby. ' Surely you must see 
something! they said ; ' it is impossible that you should 
see nothing. 1 But Mrs. De Selby continued stubbornly 
to declare that she saw nothing. While Madame 
Ste. Aldegonde was exclaiming, and when the scene 
was at its height, I could fancy that I saw something 
like a scintillation, a speculation, in one of the eyes of 


the Crucified One, but I could not be certain. As we 
left the church, the other ladies said, apropos of Mrs. 
De Selby, ' Well, you know, after all, it is not a thing 
we are obliged to believe/ and one of them, turning to 
her, added consolingly, 'And you know you did see a 
miracle at Vicovaro.' 

" Mrs. Goldsmid declared that she was so shocked 
at my want of faith, that she should take me immedi- 
ately to the Sepolti Vivi, to request the prayers of the 
abbess there. So we drove thither at once. The 
convent is most carefully concealed. Opposite the 
Church of S. Maria del Monte, a little recess in the 
street, which looks like a cul de sac, runs up to one 
of those large street shrines with a picture, so common 
in Naples, but of which there are very few at Rome. 
When you get up to the picture, you find the cul de sac 
is an illusion. In the left of the shrine a staircase in 
the wall leads you up round the walls of the adjoining 
house to a platform on the roof. Here you are sur- 
rounded by heavy doors, all strongly barred and 
bolted. In the wall there projects what looks like a 
small green barrel. Mrs. Goldsmid stooped down and 
rapped loudly on the barrel. This she continued to do 
for some time. At last a faint muffled voice was heard 
issuing from behind the barrel, and demanding what 
was wanted. ' I am Margaret Goldsmid,' said our 
companion, 'and I want to speak to the abbess.' 
' Speak again/ said the strange voice, and again 
Mrs. G. declared that she was Margaret Goldsmid. 
Then the invisible nun recognised the voice, and very 
slowly, to my great surprise, the green barrel began 
to move. Round and round it went, till at last in 


its innermost recesses was disclosed a key. Mrs. 
Goldsmid knew the meaning of this, and taking the 
key, led us round to a small postern door, which she 
unlocked, and we entered a small courtyard. Beyond 
this, other doors opened in a similar manner, till we 
reached a small white-washed room. Over the door 
was an inscription bidding those who entered that 
chamber to leave all worldly thoughts behind them. 
Round the walls of the room were inscribed : ' Qui non 
diligit, manet in morte ' ' Militia est vita hominis super 
terrain' 'Alter alterius onera portate,' and on the side 
opposite the door 

' Vi esorto a rimirar 

La vita del mondo 
Nella guisa che il mira 
Un moribondo.' 

Immediately beneath this inscription was a double 
grille, and beyond it what looked at first like pitch 
darkness, but what was afterwards shown to be a thick 
plate of iron, pierced, like the rose of a watering-pot, 
with small round holes, through which the voice might 
penetrate. Behind this plate of iron the abbess of 
the Sepolti Vivi receives her visitors. She is even 
then veiled from head to foot, and folds of thick serge 
fell over her face. Pope Gregory XVI., who of course 
could penetrate within the convent, once wishing to try 

her faith, said to her, 'Sorella mia, levate il velo.' 

'No, mio Padre,' replied the abbess, '6 vietato dalle 
regole del nostro ordine.' 

"Mrs. Goldsmid said to the abbess that she had 
brought with her two heretics, one in a state of partial 


grace, the other in a state of blind and outer darkness, 
that she might request her prayers and those of her 
sisterhood. The heretic in partial grace was Mrs. 
Dawkins, the heretic in blind darkness was myself. 
Then came back the muffled voice of the abbess, as if 
from another world, ' Bisogna essere convertiti, perche 
ci si sta poco in questo mondo : bisogna avere le lam- 
pane accese, perche non si sa 1'ora quando il Signore 
chiamera, ma bisogna che le lampane siano accese coll' 
olio della vera fede, e se ve ne manca un solo articolo, 
se ne manca il tutto.' There was much more that she 
said, but it was all in the same strain. When she said, 
1 Se ve ne manca un solo articolo, se ne manca il tutto/ 
Mrs. Goldsmid was very much displeased, because she 
had constantly tried to persuade Mrs. Dawkins that 
it was not necessary to receive all, and the abbess had 
unconsciously interfered with the whole line of her 
argument. Afterwards we asked the abbess about her 
convent. They were ' Farnesiani/ she said ; ' Sepolti 
Vivi ' was only ' un nome popolare ; ' but she did not 
know why they were called Farnesiani, or who founded 
their order. She said the nuns did not dig their 
graves every day, that also was only a popular story. 
When they died, she said, 'they only enjoyed their 
graves a short time, like the Cappuccini (a year, I think), 
and then, if their bodies were whole when they were 
dug up, they were preserved ; but if their limbs had 
separated, they were thrown away. She said the nuns 
could speak to their ' parenti stretti ' four times a year, 
but when I asked if they ever saw them, she laughed 
in fits at the very idea, ' ma perche bisogna vederli ? ' 
Mrs. Goldsmid was once inside the convent, but could 


not get an order this year, because, when it had been 
countersigned by all the other authorities, old Cardinal 
Patrizi remembered that she had been in before, and 
withdrew it. 

" I heard afterwards that generally when the cruci- 
fixion at S. Marcellino is shown, a nun of S. Teresa, 
with her face covered, and robed from head to foot in 
a long blue veil, stands by it immovable, like a pillar, 
the whole time." 

" January 27. Gibson the sculptor died this morn- 
ing. He was first taken ill while calling on Mrs. 
Caldwell. She saw that he could not speak, and, 
making him lie down, brought water and restoratives. 
He grew better and insisted on walking home. She 
wished to send for a carriage, but he would not hear 
of it, and he was able to walk home perfectly. That 
evening a paralytic seizure came. Ever since, for nine- 
teen days and nights, Miss Dowdeswell had nursed 
him. He will be a great loss to Miss Hosmer (the 
sculptress), whom he regarded as a daughter. They 
used to dine together with old Mr. Hay every Saturday. 
It was an institution. Mr. Gibson was writing his 
memoirs then, and he used to take what he had written 
and read it aloud to Mr. Hay on the Saturday evenings. 
Mr. Hay also dictated memoirs of his own life to Miss 
Hosmer, and she wrote them down." 

"January 29. I had a paper last night begging 
me to be present at a meeting about Gibson's funeral, 
but I could not go. The greater part of his friends 
wished for a regular funeral procession on foot through 


the streets, but this was overruled by Colonel Cald- 
well and others. A guard of honour, offered by the 
French general, was however accepted. The body lay 
for some hours in the little chapel at the cemetery, the 
cross of the Legion of Honour fixed upon the coffin. 
It was brought to the grave with muffled drums, all 
the artists following. Many ladies who had known 
and loved him were crying bitterly, and there was an 
immense attendance of men. The day before he died 
there was a temporary rally, and those with him 
hoped for his life. It was during this time that the 
telegraph of inquiry from the Queen came, and Gibson 
was able to receive pleasure from it, and held it in his 
hand for an hour. 

" Gibson ' Don Giovanni/ as his friends called him 
had a quaint dry humour which was all his own. 
He used to tell how a famous art-critic, whose name 
must not be mentioned, came to his studio to visit his 
newly-born statue of Bacchus. * Now pray criticise it 
as much as you like,' said the great sculptor. ' Well, 
since you ask me to find fault,' said the critic, 'I think 
perhaps there is something not quite right about the 
left leg.' ' About the leg ! that is rather a wide expres- 
sion,' said Gibson; 'but about what part of the leg?' 
' Well, just here, about the bone of the leg.' 
' Well,' said Gibson, ' I am relieved that that is the 
fault you have to find, for the bone of the leg is on the 
other side ! ' 

" Gibson used to relate with great gusto something 
which happened to him when he was travelling by 
diligence before the time of railways. He had got as 
far as the Mont Cenis, and, while crossing it, entered 


into conversation with his fellow-traveller an English- 
man, not an American. Gibson asked where he had 
been, and he mentioned several places, and then said, 
' There was one town I saw which I thought curious, 
the name of which I cannot for the life of me remember, 
but I know it began with an R.' 'Was it Roncig- 
lione,' said Gibson, ' or perhaps Radicofani ? ' think- 
ing of all the unimportant places beginning with R. 
' No, no ; it was a much shorter name a one-syllable 
name. I remember we entered it by a gate near a 
very big church with lots of pillars in front of it, and 
there was a sort of square with two fountains.' ' You 
cannot possibly mean Rome ? ' ( Oh yes, Rome that 
was the name of the place.' " 

" February 4. I spent yesterday evening with the 
Henry Feildens. 1 Mrs. Fielden told me that in her 
girlhood her family went to the Isle of Wight and 
rented St. Boniface House, between Bonchurch and 
Ventnor. She slept in a room on the first floor with 
her sister Ghita : the French governess and her sister 
Cha slept in the next room, the English governess 
above. If they talked in bed they were always punished 
by the English governess, who could not bear them ; 
so they never spoke except in a whisper. One night, 
when they were in bed, with the curtains closely drawn, 
the door was suddenly burst open with a bang, and 
something rushed into the room and began to whisk 

1 The Rev. Henry Arbuthnot Feilden married Ellinor, one of the 
daughters of Edmund Hornby, Esq., of Dalton Hall in Lancashire a 
very old friend and connection of our family. Her sister Charlotte after- 
wards married my first cousin Oswald Penrhyn. 


about in it, making great draught and disturbance. 
They were not frightened, but very angry, thinking 
some one was playing them a trick. But immediately 
the curtains were drawn aside and whisked up over 
their heads, and one by one all the bed-clothes were 
dragged away from them, though when they stretched 
out their hands they could feel nothing. First the 
counterpane went, then the blankets, then the sheet, 
then the pillows, and lastly the lower sheet was drawn 
away from under them. When it came to this she 
(Ellinor Hornby) exclaimed, ' I can bear this no 
longer/ and she and her sister both jumped out of bed 
at the foot, which was the side nearest the door. As 
they jumped out, they felt the mattress graze against 
their legs, as it also was dragged off the bed. Ghita 
Hornby rushed into the next room to call the French 
governess, while Ellinor screamed for assistance, hold- 
ing the door of their room tightly on the outside, fully 
believing that somebody would be found in the room. 
The English governess and the servants, roused by 
the noise, now rushed downstairs, and the door was 
opened. The room was perfectly still and there was 
no one there. It was all tidied. The curtains were 
carefully rolled, and tied up above the head of the bed : 
the sheets and counterpane were neatly folded up in 
squares and laid in the three corners of the room : the 
mattress was reared against the wall under the window : 
the blanket was in the fireplace. Both the governesses 
protested that the girls must have done it themselves 
in their sleep, but nothing would induce them to return 
to the room, and they were surprised the next morning, 
when they expected a scolding from their mother, to 


find that she quietly assented to the room being shut 
up. Many years after Mrs. Hornby met the lady to 
whom the property belonged, and after questioning her 
about what had happened to her family, the lady told 
her that the same thing had often happened to others, 
and that the house was now shut up and could never 
be let, because it was haunted. A murder by a lady 
of her child was committed in that room, and she occa- 
sionally appeared ; but more frequently only the noise 
and movement of the furniture occurred, and sometimes 
that took place in the adjoining room also. St. Boni- 
face House is mentioned as haunted in the guide-books 
of the Isle of Wight." 

"Feb. 12. Went in the morning with the Feildens 
to S. Maria in Monticelli a small church near the 
Ghetto. The church is not generally open, and we 
had to ring at the door of the priest's lodgings 
to get in : he let us into the church by a private 
passage. In the right aisle is the famous picture over 
an altar. It is a Christ with the eyes almost closed, 
weighed down by pain and sorrow. The Feildens 
knelt before it, and in a very few minutes they both 
declared that they saw its. eyes open and close again. 
From the front of the picture and on the right side of 
it, though I looked fixedly at it, I could see nothing, 
but after I had looked for a long time from the left 
side, I seemed to see the eyes languidly close altogether, 
as if the figure were sinking unconsciously into a fast 

"In the case of this picture, Pope Pius IX. has 
turned Protestant, and, disapproving of the notice it 


attracted, after it was first observed to move its eyes 
in 1859, he had it privately removed from the church, 
and it was kept shut up for some years. Two years 
ago it was supposed that people had forgotten all about 
it, and it was quietly brought back to the church in the 
night. It has frequently been seen to move the eyes 
since, but it has not been generally shown. The 
sacristan said it was a ' regalo ' made to the church at 
its foundation, and none knew who the artist was. 

" In the afternoon I was in St. Peter's with Miss 
Buchanan when the famous Brother Ignatius * came in. 
He led 'the Infant Samuel' by the hand, and a lay 
brother followed. He has come to Rome for his health, 
and has brought with him a sister (Sister Ambrogia) 
and the lay brother to wash and look after the Infant 
Samuel. He found the ' Infant ' as a baby on the altar 
at Norwich, and vowed him at once to the service of the 
Temple, dressed him in a little habit, and determined 
that he should never speak to a woman as long as he 
lived. The last is extremely hard upon Sister Ambrogia, 
who does not go sight-seeing with her companions, and 
having a very dull time of it, would be exceedingly glad 
to play with the little rosy-cheeked creature. The Infant 
is now four years old, and is dressed in a white frock 
and cowl like a little Carthusian, and went pattering 
along the church in the funniest way by the side of the 
stately Brother Ignatius. He held the Infant up in his 
arms to kiss St. Peter's toe, and then rubbed its forehead 
against his foot, and did the same for himself, and then 

1 Mr. Leycester Lyne, celebrated as a preacher and for his follies in 
playing at monasticism. His mother was a Leycester of White Place, 
descended from a younger branch of the Leycesters of Toft. 


they both prostrated themselves before the principal 
shrine, with the lay brother behind them, and afterwards 
at the side altars, the Infant of course exciting great 
attention and amusement amongst the canons and priests 
of the church. A lady acquaintance of ours went to see 
Brother Ignatius and begged to talk to the Infant. This 
was declared to be impossible, the Infant was never 
to be allowed to speak to a woman, but she might be 
in the same room with the Infant if she pleased, and 
Brother Ignatius would then himself put any questions 
she wished. She asked who its father and mother 
were, and the Infant replied, ' I am the child of Jesus 
Christ and of the Blessed Virgin and of the holy St. 
Benedict. 5 She then asked if it liked being at Rome, 
' Yes,' it said, ' I like being at Rome, for it is the city 
of the holy saints and martyrs and of the blessed 
Apostles Peter and Paul.' When we saw the party, 
they were just come from the Pope, who told Brother 
Ignatius to remember that a habit could not make 
a monk. 

" Miss Dowdeswell has been to see us, and given us 
a terrible account of the misapplication of the Roman 
charities. She says the people would rather beg, or 
even really die of want, than go into most of the insti- 
tutions that the so-called soup is little more than 
water, and that the inmates are really starved, besides 
which the dirt and vermin are quite disgusting. The 
best hospital is that of the { Buon Fratelli,' where the 
people who obtain entrance are kindly treated, but it is 
exceedingly difficult to get admittance, and the hospital 
authorities will always say it is full, scarcely ever taking 
in more than nine patients, though there is accommoda- 


tion for thirty, and each person admitted has to pay 
ten scudi. At S. Michele, which is enormously en- 
dowed, and which professes to be free, the patient is 
not only compelled to have a complete outfit of bedding 
and everything else she requires, but must pay three 
scudi a month for her maintenance as long as she 
remains, yet for this will not have what she could 
procure for the same sum elsewhere." 

" Feb. 15. Went with the Eyres to Benzoni's studio. 
Amongst many other statues was a fine group of a 
venerable old man raising a little half-naked boy out 
of a gutter. ' Ecco il mio benefattore/ said Benzoni. 
It was the likeness of Conte Luigi Taddini of Crema, 
who first recognised the genius of Benzoni when making 
clay images in the puddles by the wayside, and sent 
him to Rome at his own expense for education. Count 
Taddini died six years after, but, in the height of his 
fame, Benzoni has made this group as a voluntary 
thank-offering and presented it to the family of his 
benefactor in Crema. He was only twelve years old 
when adopted by Taddini. 

"A curious instance of presentiment happened 
yesterday. Some charitable ladies, especially Mrs. 
McClintock, 1 had been getting up a raffle for a picture 
of the poor artist Coleman, whom they believed to 
be starving. The tickets cost five scudi apiece, and 
were drawn yesterday. Just at the last moment Mrs. 
Keppel, at the Pension Anglaise, had a presentiment 
that 77 would be the lucky number, and she sent to 
tell Mrs. McClintock that if she could have 77 she would 

1 Afterwards Lady Rathdonell. 


take it, but if not, she would not take any number at 
all. Seventy-seven happened to be Mrs. McClintock's 
own number. However, she said that rather than Mrs. 
Keppel should take none, she would give it up to her 
and take another. Mrs. Keppel took 77 and she got 
the picture." 

"Feb. 24, 1866. The other day little Nicole Dol- 
gorouki came in to dinner with a pencil in his hand. 
The Princess said, ' Little boys should not sit at dinner 
with pencils in their hands ; ' upon which the child of 
eight years old coolly replied, ' L'artiste ne quitte jamais 
son crayon ! ' 

" When the Mother and Lea were both ill last week, 
our Italian servants Clementina and (her daughter) 
Louisa groaned incessantly ; and when Clementina was 
taken ill on the following night, Louisa gave up all 
hope at once, and sent for her other children to take 
leave of her. This depression of spirits has gone on 
ever since Christmas, and it turns out now that they 
think a terrible omen has come to the house. No omen 
is worse than an upset of oil, but, if this occurs on 
Christmas Eve, it is absolutely fatal, and on Christmas 
Eve my mother upset her little table with the great 
moderator lamp upon it. The oil was spilt all over 
her gown and the lamp broken to pieces on the floor, 
with great cries of ' O santissimo* diavolo ' from the 
servants. 'Only one thing can save us now,' says 
Louisa; 'if Providence would mercifully permit that 
some one should break a bottle of wine here by acci- 
dent, that would bring back luck to the house, but 
nothing else can.' 


"The Borgheses have had a magnificent fancy 
ball. Young Bolognetti Cenci borrowed the armour 
of Julius II. from the Pope for the occasion, and young 
Corsini that of Cardinal de Bourbon. The Duchess 
Fiano went in the costume of the first Empire, terribly 
improper in these days, and another lady went as 
a nymph just emerged from a fountain, and naturally 
clothed as little as possible. The Princess Borghese l 
was dreadfully shocked, but she only said, 'I fear, 
Madame, that you must be feeling horribly cold.' 

" When the French ambassador sent to the Pope to 
desire that he would send away the Court of Naples, 
the Pope said he must decline to give up the parental 
prerogative which had always belonged to the Popes, 
of giving shelter to unfortunate princes of other nations, 
of whatever degree or nation they might be, and ' of 
this,' he added pointedly, ' the Bonapartes are a 
striking example.' The French ambassador had the 
bad taste to go on to the Palazzo Farnese, and, after 
condoling with the King of Naples 2 upon what he 
had heard of his great poverty, said, ' If your Majesty 
would engage at once to leave Rome, I on my 
part would promise to do my best endeavours with 
my Government to obtain the restoration of at least 
a part of your Majesty's fortune.' The King coldly 
replied, 'Sir, I have heard that in all ages great 
and good men have ended their days in obscurity 
and poverty, and it can be no source of dread to me 
that I may be numbered amongst them.' 

1 Therese de la Rochefoucauld, wife of Prince Marc-Antonio 

2 Francesco II. 


"The Queen-mother of Naples 1 is still very rich, 
but is now a mere nurse to her large family, with 
some of whom she is to be seen ' gran' bel' pezzo di 
donna ' driving every day. When the King returned 
from Caieta, she was still at the Quirinal, and went 
down to the Piazza Monte Cavallo to receive him; 
but with him and the Queen came her own eldest 
son, and, before noticing her sovereign, she rushed 
to embrace her child, saying, ' Adesso, son pagato 
a tutto.' 

"One sees the Queen of Naples 2 daily walking 
with her sister Countess Irani 3 near the Porta 
Angelica, or threading the carriages in the Piazza di 
Spagna, where the coachmen never take off their 
hats, and even crack their whips as she passes. She 
wears a straw hat, a plain violet linsey-woolsey 
dress, and generally leads a large deerhound by a 
string. She is perfectly lovely. 

"The great Mother, Maria de Matthias, 4 has lately 
come down from her mountains of Acuto to visit my 
sister, who has arrived in Rome, and the confessor 
of the Venerable Anna Maria Taigi has also visited 
her. I have read the life of this saint, and have never 
found out any possible excuse for her being canon- 
ised, unless that she married her husband because he 
was a good man, though he was ' ruvido di maniere e 

"At dinner at Mr. Brooke's, I met the quaint and 

1 Marie Therese Isabella, daughter of Archduke Charles of Austria. 

2 Marie, daughter of Duke Maximilian of Bavaria. 

3 Princess Mathilde of Bavaria. 

4 Foundress of the Order of the Precious Blood. 


clever Mrs. Payne, Madame d'Arblay's niece. She 
said that England had an honest bad climate and 
Rome a dishonest good one. 

"Count Bolognetti Cenci is marvellously handsome, 
face and figure alike perfect. Some people maintain 
that Don Onorato Caietani is equally handsome. He 
has the extraordinary plume of white hair which is 
hereditary in the Caietani family. His father, the 
Duke of Sermoneta, said the other day, with some 
pardonable pride, ' Our ancestors were reigning sove- 
reigns (in Tuscany) long before the Pope had any 
temporal power.' 

" We have been to the Villa Doria to pick ' Widowed 
Iris,' which the Italians call ' I tre Chiodi del Nostro 
Signore,' the three nails of our Saviour's cross. 

" My sister declares that when Madame Barrere, 
late superior of the Order of the Sacr6 Cceur, was in 
her great old age, a Catholic lady who was married to 
a Protestant came to her and implored her to promise 
that, as soon as she entered heaven, her first petition 
should be for her husband that he might be a Catholic. 
Soon after this the Protestant husband was taken 
alarmingly ill, but gave his wife no hope that he would 
change his religion ; yet, to her great surprise, when he 
was dying he bade her send for a priest. She con- 
sidered this at first as a result of delirium, but he 
insisted upon the priest coming, and, rallying soon 
after, was received into the Roman Catholic Church. 
In a few days came the news of the death of Madame 
Barrere, and on inquiry it was found that the moment 
of her death and that of the Protestant sending for the 
priest exactly coincided." 


" March 13. The Roman princes are generally 
enormously rich. Tortonia is said to have an income 
which gives him 7000 scudi (;i2OO) a day. He is 
very charitable, and gives a great many pensions of a 
scudo a day to poor individuals of the mezzoceto class. 
The Chigis used to be immensely rich, but were ruined 
by old Princess Chigi, who gambled away everything 
she could get hold of. When one of her sons was 
to be made a Monsignore, a collection was arranged 
amongst the friends of the family to pay the expenses, 
but they imprudently left the rouleaux of money on 
the chimney-piece, where the old Princess spied them, 
and snapping them up, gioccolare-& them all away. 
The Massimi are rich, but the old Prince 1 is very 
miserly. The other day he told his cook that he was 
going to give a supper, but that it must not cost more 
than fifteen baiocchi a head, and that he must give 
minestra. The cook said it was utterly impossible, 
but the Prince declared he did not care in the least 
about ' possible/ only it must be done. The supper 
came off, and the guests had minestra. The next day 
the Prince said to his cook, 'Well, now, you see you 
could do it perfectly well ; what was the use of making 
such a fuss about it ? ' The cook said ' Yes, I did it, 
but would you like to know where I got the bones from 
that made the soup ? ' The Prince shrugged his 
shoulders and said, ' Oh no, I don't want in the least 
to know about that; so long as you do your suppers 
for my price, you may get your bones wherever you 
like.' The cook told his friends afterwards that he 
got them at the Immondezzajo ! " 

1 Prince Camillo, who married a princess of Savoy-Carignan. 


"March 25. Last January my sister wanted to 
engage a new maid. The mistress of a famous flower 
shop at Paris recommended her present maid, ' Madame 
Victorine,' who came to the hotel to see Esmeralda, 
who was delighted with her, only thinking her too good 
for the place. The new maid only made two stipu- 
lations : one was that she should always be called 
Madame Victorine ; the other, that she should not be 
expected to have her meals with the other servants. 
My sister said that as to the first stipulation, there 
would be no difficulty at all ; that she had always called 
her mother's maid ' Madame Victoire/ and that she could 
have no objection to calling her Madame Victorine ; but 
that as to the second stipulation, though she insisted 
upon nothing, and though Madame Victorine would be 
perfectly free to take her food away and eat it wher- 
ever she pleased, yet she did not advise her to make 
any difficulty of this kind, as they were going to Italy, 
where the servants have jealous natures, and would 
be peculiarly liable to resent anything of the sort. 
Upon this Madame Victorine waived her second stipu- 

" Esmeralda was surprised, when Madame Victorine 
came to her, to find how well she had been educated 
and little traces of her having belonged to a higher 
position several times appeared by accident, upon 
which occasions Madame Victorine would colour deeply 
and try to hide what she had said. Thus, once she 
was betrayed into saying, ' I managed in that way 
with my servants ; ' and once in the railway, ' I did 
so when I was travelling with my son.' My sister 
observed not only that all her dresses were of the best 


silk though perfectly plain, but that all her cuffs, collars, 
and handkerchiefs were of the very best and finest 
material. But the oddest circumstance was, that once 
when Esmeralda was going to seal a letter, having no 
seal about her, she asked Madame Victorine if she had 
one. Madame Victorine lent her one, and then, colour- 
ing violently, as if she remembered something, tried to 
snatch it away, but Esmeralda had already pressed it 
down, and saw on the impression a coronet and a cipher 
When my sister first told Madame Victorine that she was 
too good for the place, she seemed greatly agitated and 
exclaimed, ' Oh don't, don't change your mind, do take 
me : I will consent to do anything, only do take me.' 

" One day since they have been at Palazzo Parisani, 
Esmeralda was looking for something amongst her 
music. 'You will find it in such an opera,' said 
Madame Victorine. ' Why, do you play also ? ' said 
Esmeralda, much surprised. 'Yes,' said Madame 
Victorine, colouring deeply. 'Then will you play to 
me?' said my sister. 'Oh no, no,' said Madame 
Victorine, trembling all over. 'Then I hope you 
will play sometimes when I am out/ said Esmeralda, 
and this Madame Victorine said she would do, and 
it seemed to please her very much. " 1 

" March 26. The Santa Croce are perhaps really 
the oldest family in Rome. They claim descent from 

1 The mystery of Madame Victorine was never cleared up. In the 
summer of 1867 she suddenly expressed a wish to leave, though full 
of gratitude and affection for my sister, and she implied that she need 
no longer continue in service. Probably she has returned into the 
sphere of life from which she evidently came. She called herself 
Victorine Errard. 


Valerius Publicola, and the spirit of his life, that 
which characterised 'the good house that loved the 
people well/ still remains in the family. The other 
day Donna Vincenza Santa Croce was speaking of the 
Trinita de' Monti, 1 and the system of education there, 
and she said, ' I do so dislike those nuns : they are 
so worldly : they do so give in to rank, for when a 
girl of one of the great noble houses is there, they 
will make all the other girls stand up when she comes 
into a room ! But this, you know, is not right, for it 
is only goodness and talent, not rank, that ought to 
make people esteemed in the world/ And was not 
this the spirit of Valerius Publicola speaking through 
his descendant ? " 

"March 27. Last Sunday (Palm Sunday) was 
the last day of the ' mission ' which the Pope had ap- 
pointed in the hope of warding off both the cholera 
and the destruction of his own power. All the week 
processions had paraded the streets and monks had 
preached in the piazzas, rousing the feelings of the 
people in behalf of the Holy Father, and last Sunday 
it all came to a close. Giacinta, ' the Saint of St. 
Peter's,' came to tell my sister about the scene at Santo 
Spirito, where she was. A Passionist Father took 
a real crown of thorns and pressed it upon his head 
three times, till the thorns sank deep into the flesh, 
and the blood ran in streams down his face and over 
his dress. The people cried and sobbed convulsively, 
and were excited to frenzy when he afterwards took 

1 A celebrated convent in Rome, where the French nuns have a 
school, which is very popular. 


a ' disciplina ' and began violently to scourge himself 
before all the congregation. One man sobbed and 
screamed so violently that he was dragged out by the 
carabinieri. Whilst the feelings of the people were 
thus wrought up, the father besought and commanded 
them to deliver up all books they possessed which 
were mentioned in the Index, tambourines and things 
used in dancing the saltarella, and all weapons, and 
all through that afternoon they kept pouring in by 
hundreds, men bringing their books, and women their 
tambourines, and many their knives and pistols, which 
were piled up into a great heap in the courtyard of 
the Santo Spirito and set on fire. It was a huge 
bonfire, which burnt quite late into the evening, and 
whilst it burnt, more people were perpetually arriving 
and throwing on their books and other things, just 
as in "the old days of Florence under the influence of 

" Last Thursday at the Caravita, the doors of the 
church were ' closed at one hour of the day ' (i.e., after 
Ave Maria), only men being admitted, and when they 
were fast, scourges were distributed, the lights all put 
out, and every one began to scourge both themselves 
and their neighbours, any one who had ventured to 
remain in the church without using a l disciplina ' 
being the more vigorously scourged by the others. 
At such times all is soon a scene of the wildest con- 
fusion, and shrieks and groans are heard on all sides. 
Some poor creatures try to escape by clinging to the 
pillars of the galleries, others fly screaming through 
the church with their scourgers pursuing them like 


" They say that the reason why St. Joseph's day was 
so much kept this year is that the Pope is preparing 
the public mind to receive a dogma of the Immaculate 
Conception of St. Joseph perhaps to be promulgated 
next year: St. Anne is to be reserved to another 

" April i, Easter Sunday. Passion Week has been 
very odd and interesting, but not reverent. It was 
very curious to see how as Mrs. Goldsmid says, ' the 
Church always anticipates/ so that the Saviour, per- 
sonified by the Sacrament, is laid in the tomb long 
before the hour of His death, and Thursday, not 
Saturday, is the day upon which all the faithful go 
about to visit the sepulchres. 1 My sister decorated 
that of S. Claudio with flowers and her great worked 
carpet. The Mother recalls John Bunyan's confession 
of faith 

' Blest cross, blest sepulchre, blest rather He, 
The Man that there was put to shame for me.' 

" We went to the Benediction in the Piazza S. 
Pietro a glorious blue sky and burning sunshine, 
and the vast crowd making the whole scene very 
grand, especially at the moment when the Pope 
stretched out his arms, and, hovering over the crimson 
balcony like a great white albatross, gave his blessing 
to all the world. Surely nothing is finer than that 
wonderful voice of Pius IX., which, without ever losing 

1 Because it was on the day before the Crucifixion that Our Lord 
said " This is my body," &c. 


its tone of indescribable solemnity, yet vibrates to the 
farthest corners of the immense piazza. 

"Afterwards we went to S. Andrea della Valle to 
see the l sepolcro ; ' but far more worth seeing was a 
single ray of light streaming in through a narrow slit 
in one of the dark blinds, and making a glistening pool 
of gold upon the black pavement 

" On Good Friday, after the English service, we 
went to Santo Spirito in Borgo, where, after waiting 
an hour and a half, seeing nothing but the curiously 
ragged congregation, we found that the ' Tre Ore ' was 
to be preached in broad Trasteverino, of which we 
could not understand a word. We went into St. 
Peter's, which was in a state of widowhood, no bells, 
no clock, no holy water, no ornaments on any of the 
altars, no lamps burning at the shrine, and all because 
the Sacrament was no longer present. We went again 
in the afternoon, when the whole building was thickly 
crowded from end to end. I stood upon the ledge of 
one of the pillars and watched two graceful ladies and a 
gentlemanly-looking man in black buffetted in the crowd 
below me : they were the King and Queen of Naples 
and the Countess Trani. Some zealous Bourbonists 
kissed their hands at risk of being trampled on. 

" To-day St. Peter's and all the other churches have 
come to life again : the Sacrament has been restored : 
the bells have rung : and fire and water have been 
re-blessed for the year to come. All private Catho- 
lic houses too have had their blessings. A priest and 
a boy surprised Lea by coming in here and blessing 
everything, and she found them asperging the Mother's 
bed with holy water, all at the desire of our fellow- 


lodger, Mr. Monteith of Carstairs, whom Louisa de- 
scribed as dropping gold pieces into their water-vessel. 
At Palazzo Parisani, as well as below us, a f colazione ' 
was set out, with a great cake, eggs, &c., and after 
being blessed was given away. 

" Antonelli has just been made a priest, in the vague 
idea, I suppose, that it might some day be convenient 
to raise him to the papacy. 

"Mr. Perry Williams, the artist, thought the old 
woman who cleans out his studio looked dreadfully 
ill the other day, and said, ' You look very bad, what 
on earth is the matter with you ? ' ' Cosa vuole, 
Signore, ho avuto una digestione tutta la notte.' " 

"April 3. This morning poor little Miss Joyce lay 
in a chapelle ardente at S. Andrea delle Fratte, and 
all the English Catholics, with the Borgheses and Dorias, 
who were her cousins, attended the requiem mass. 
She was only alarmingly ill for thirty-six hours, of 
brain fever, caused by a dose of twenty-five grains of 
quinine after typhus, which she had brought back from 
Naples. She had been the gayest of the gay all the 
season, and a week ago was acting in tableaux and 
singing at Mrs. Cholmondeley's party. It is said that 
at least one young lady is killed every year by being 
taken to Naples when she is overdone by the balls 
and excitement here. 

" My sister gave a small party yesterday evening. 
The Duke and Duchess Sora were there. The Duchess 
has a wonderfully charming expression. K., a young 
Tractarian, was introduced to her. She said after- 
wards, 'J'ai pense longtemps qu'il e*tait catholique, 


et puis j'ai tourne, j'ai tourne, j'ai tourne, et voila qu'il 
etait protestant ! ' " 

"April 8. On Thursday, at the Monteiths', I met 
Lady Herries, Mrs. Montgomery, my sister, and many 
other Catholics. They were all assembled before dinner 
to receive Cardinal de Reisach, a very striking-looking 
old man, whose white hair and brilliant scarlet robes 
made a splendid effect of colour. 

"On Friday, at 2 P.M., I joined the Feildens to go 
to the Palazzo Farnese. Mrs. F. wore a high grey 
dress without a bonnet : little Helen was in black 
velvet, with all her pretty hair flowing over her 
shoulders ; Mr. Robartes, Mr. Feilden, and I wore 
evening dress. *The whole way in the carriage my 
companions declared they felt more terrified than if 
they were going to a dentist, as bad as if they were 
going to have their legs taken off. We drove into 
the courtyard of the Farnese and to the foot of the 
staircase. Several other people were just coming 
down. We were shown through one long gallery 
after another to a small salon furnished with green, 
where the Duca della Regina and an old lady received 
us. Soon the door was opened at the side, and in 
very distinct tones the Duke mentioned our names. 
Just within the door stood Francis II. He looked grave 
and sad, and his forehead seemed to work convulsively 
at moments ; still I thought him handsome. The Queen 
sat on a sofa at the other side of the room. She was 
in a plain black mourning dress with some black lace in 
her hair (for Queen Marie Amelie, her husband's aunt). 
The room was a boudoir, hung round with family 


portraits. There was a beautiful miniature of the 
Queen on the table near which I sat. 

" I went up at once to the King and made as if I 
would kiss his hand, but he shook mine warmly and 
made me sit in an arm-chair between him and the 
Queen. Mrs. Feilden in the meantime had gone 
direct to the Queen, who seated her by her side 
upon the sofa, and taking little Helen on her lap, 
kissed her tenderly, and said she remembered her, 
having often seen her before. I said, ' Ce petit enfant 
a tant de denouement pour sa Majeste" la Reine, qu'elle 
va tous les jours a la Place d'Espagne seulement 
pour avoir le bonheur de voir sa Majeste" quand elle 
passe.' The Queen's eyes filled with tears, and she 
hid her face in Helen's hair, which she kissed and 
stroked, saying, ' Oh mon cher enfant, mon cher petit 
enfant ! ' 

" The King then said something about the great rains 
we had suffered. I mentioned the prophecy if it rained 
on the 4th April 

' Quattro di brillante, 
Quaranta di durante,' 

and the King said that in Naples there was a super- 
stition of the same kind as that of our St. Swithin in 

" As another set of people came in, we rose to go, 
kissing the Queen's hand, except Helen, who kissed 
her face. The King 1 shook hands and walked with 
us to the door, expressing a wish that we should 

1 King Francesco II., died December 1894. 


return to Rome ; and replying, when I said how much 
my mother benefited by the climate here, that Madame 
my mother ought always to make the most of what- 
ever climate suited her health and remain in it. In 
the anteroom the Duca della Regina and the old lady 
were waiting to see Helen again. 

" To-day Mrs. Ramsay asked me the difference be- 
tween the Italian words mezzo-caldo and semi-freddo. 
One would think they were the same, but mezzo-caldo 
is hot punch and semi-freddo is cold cream ! " 

I have put in these extracts from my journal, 
as they describe a state of things at Rome 
which seemed then as if it would last for 
ever, but which is utterly swept away now 
and rapidly passing into oblivion. The English 
society was as frivolous then as it is now, but 
much more primitive. It was the custom in 
those days, when any one gave a larger party 
than usual, to ask Mrs. Miller, a respect- 
able old Anglo-German baker who lived in 
the Via della Croce, to make tea and manage 
the refreshments, and one knew whether 
the party that one was invited to was going 
to be a large or small one by looking to 
see if there was " To meet Mrs. Miller " in 
the corner. 

Our days were for the most part spent in 
drawing, and many were the delightful hours 


we passed in the Villa Negroni, which has now 
entirely disappeared, in spite of its endless 


historic associations, or in the desolate and 

1 From " Days near Rome." 


beautiful vigne of the Esquiline, which have also 
been destroyed since the Sardinian occupation 
of Rome. Indeed, those who visit Rome now 
that it is a very squalid modern city, can have 
no idea of the wealth and glory of picturesque- 
ness which adorned its every corner before 
1870, or of how romantic were the passing 
figures the crimson Cardinals ; the venerable 
generals of religious orders with their flowing 
white beards ; the endless monks and nuns ; the 
pifferari with their pipes ; the peasant women 
from Cori and Arpino and Subiaco, with 
their great gold earrings, coral necklaces, and 
snowy head-dresses ; the contadini in their 
sheep -skins and goat -skins; the handsome 
stalwart Guardia Nobile in splendid tight- 
fitting uniforms ; and above all, the grand 
figure and beneficent face of Pius IX. so fre- 
quently passing, seated in his glass coach, 
in his snow-white robes, with the stoic self- 
estimation of the Popes, but with his own 
kindly smile and his fingers constantly raised 
in benediction. 

The heat was very great before we left 
Rome in April. We went first to Narni, where 
we stayed several days in a very primitive 
lodging, with the smallest possible amount of 
furniture, and nothing to eat except cold goat 


and rosemary, but in a glorious situation on 
the terrace which overlooks the deep rift of the 
Nar, clothed everywhere with ilex, box, and 
arbutus ; and we spent long hours drawing the 
two grand old bridges Roman and Mediaeval 
which stride across the river, even Lea being 


stimulated by the intense beauty to a trial of 
her artistic powers, and making a very credit- 
able performance of the two grand cypresses on 
the slope of the hill, which have disappeared 
under the Sardinian rule. 

We spent a happy day at Spoleto, with its 

1 From " Days near Rome." 




splendid ilex woods. Here my friends Kilcour- 
sie * and Pearson joined us, and I went with 
them to spend the morning at the Temple of 
the Clitumnus, and returned just too late for the 
train we had intended to leave by. It is very 
characteristic of the slowness of those early 


days of Italian railways, that though we did 
not order our carriage tilr some time after the 
train was gone, we reached Perugia by road, 
in spite of the steep hill to be climbed, before 
'the train which we were to have taken arrived 

1 Frederick, Viscount Kilcoursie, son of the 8th Earl of Cavan. 
2 From "Days near Rome." 


on the railway. This evening's drive (April 23) 
is one of the Italian journeys I look back 
upon with greatest pleasure, the going onwards 
through the rich plain of vines and almonds 
and olives, and all the blaze of spring tulips 
and gladioli, and the stopping to buy the 
splendid oranges from the piles which lay in 
the little market under the old cathedral of 
Foligno ; then seeing the sky turn opal behind 
the hills, and deepen in colour through a con- 
flagration of amber, and orange , and crimson, 
of which the luminousness was never lost, 
though everything else disappeared into one 
dense shadow, and the great cypresses on the 
mountain edges were only dark spires engraven 
upon the sky. How many such evenings have 
we spent, ever moving onwards at that stately 
smooth vetturino pace and silent, Mother ab- 
sorbed in her heavenly, I in my earthly con- 
templations ; dear Lea, tired by her long 
day, often sleeping opposite to us against the 

We spent several days in Florence in 1866, 
when the streets were already placarded with 
such advertisements as 'I Menzogne di Genese, 
o I'lmpostatura di Mose ' typical of the change 
of Government. I paid several visits to the 
Comtesse d'Usedom (the Olympia Malcolm of 




my childhood), who was more extraordinary 
than ever. When I went to luncheon with her 
in the Villa Capponi, she talked incessantly for 
three hours, chiefly of spirits. 


" I believe in them/' she said, " of course I do. 
Why, haven't I heard them ? " (with a perfect yell). 
"Why, I've seen a child whom we knew most inti- 
mately who was perfectly possessed by spirits evil 

1 From " Florence." 


spirits, I mean. There is nothing efficacious against 
that kind but prayer and the crucifix. Why, the poor 
little thing used to struggle for hours. It used to 
describe the devils it saw. They were of different 
kinds. Sometimes it would say, 'Oh, it's only one 
of the innocent blackies,' and then it would shriek 
when it thought it saw a red devil come. It was the 
red devils that did all the mischief. All the best 
physicians were called in, but they all said the case 
was quite beyond them. The possession sometimes 
came on twice in a day. It would end by the child 
gasping a great sigh, as if at that moment the evil 
spirit went out of it, and then quite calmly it would 
open its eyes, wonder where it was, and remember 
nothing of what had happened. The doctors urged 
that the child should not be kept quiet, but taken 
abroad and amused, and mama writes me word now 
that it is quite well. 

" I never saw the ghosts at Rugen," said Madame 
von Usedom, "but there is one of Usedom's houses 
there which I have refused ever to go to again, for I 
have heard them there often. The lady in the room 
with me saw them too she saw three white sisters 
pulling her husband out of his grave. 

"We have an old lady in our family, a relation of 
Usedom's, who has that wonderful power of second- 
sight. . . . When we left you at Bamberg (in 1853), 
we went to Berlin, and there we saw Usedom's relation, 
who told me that I was going to have a son. She 
' saw it,' she said. Saw it ! why, she saw it as plain as 
daylight : I was going to have a son : Usedom's first wife 
had brought him none, and I was going to give him one. 


" When I left Berlin, we went to Rugen, but I was 
to return to Berlin, where my son was to be born. 
Well, about three weeks before my confinement was 
expected, the old lady sent for a relation of Usedom's, 
who was in Berlin, and said, ' Have you heard any- 
thing of Olympia ? ' ' Yes/ he said, ' I heard from 
Usedom yesterday, and she is going on as well as pos- 
sible, and will be here in a few days.' ' No/ said the 
old lady, ' she will not, for the child is dead. Yester- 
day, as I was sitting here, three angels passed through 
my room with a little child in their arms, and the face 
of the child was so exactly like Usedom's, that I know 
that the child is born and that it is in heaven/ And so 
it was. I had a bad fall in Rugen, which we thought 
nothing of at the time. I had so much strength and 
courage that it did not seem to affect me ; but a week 
after my boy was born dead killed by that fall, and 
the image, oh ! the very image of Usedom." 

From Florence we went to Bellagio on the 
Lago di Como, and spent a week of glorious 
weather amid beautiful flowers with nightin- 
gales singing in the trees all day and night. 
Many of our Roman friends joined us, and we 
passed pleasant days together in the garden 
walks and in short excursions to the neigh- 
bouring villas. When we left Bellagio, the 
two Misses Hawker, often our companions 
in Rome, accompanied us. We ascended the 
Splugen from Chiavenna in pitch darkness, 


till, about 4 A.M., the diligence entered upon 
the snow cuttings, and we proceeded for some 
time between walls of snow, often fifteen feet 
high. At last we stopped altogether, and in 
a spot where there was no refuge whatever 
from the ferocious ice-laden wind. Meantime 
sledges were prepared, being small open carts 
without wheels, which just held two persons 
each : my mother and I were in the second, 
Lea and an Italian in the third, and the 
Hawkers in the fourth : we had no man with 
our sledge. The sledges started in procession, 
the horses stumbling over the ledges in the 
snow, from which we bounded up and down. 
At last the path began to wind along the 
edge of a terrific precipice, where nothing but 
a slight edging of fresh snow separated one 
from the abyss. Where this narrow path 
turned it was truly horrible. Then came a 
tunnel festooned with long icicles ; then a 
fearful descent down a snow-drift almost per- 
pendicularly over the side of the mountain, 
the horses sliding on all fours, and the sledges 
crashing and bounding from one hard piece 
of snow to another ; all this while the wind 
blew furiously, and the other sledges behind 
seemed constantly coming upon us. Certainly 
I never remember anything more appalling. 




At the bottom of the drift was another dili- 
gence, but the Hawkers and I walked on to 

We spent an interesting afternoon at Brugg, 
and drew at Konigsfelden, where the Emperor 


Albert's tomb is left deserted and neglected 
in a stable, and Queen Agnes's room remains 
highly picturesque, with many relics of her. 
In the evening we had a lovely walk through 
the forest to Hapsburg, where we saw a splen- 


did sunset from the hill of the old castle. 
With a glimpse at Freiburg-im-Breisgau, we 
reached Carlsruhe, with which we were very 
agreeably surprised. The Schloss Garten is 
really pretty, with fine trees and fountains : 
the town is bright and clean ; and all around 
is the forest with its endless .pleasant paths. 
We found dear Madame de Bunsen estab- 
lished with her daughters Frances and Emilia 
in a nice old-fashioned house, 18 Waldhorn- 
strasse, with all their pictures and treasures 
around them, the fine bust of Mrs. Waddington 
in itself giving the room a character. Circling 
round the aunts were Theodora von Ungern 
Sternberg's five motherless children, a per- 
petual life-giving influence to the home. We 
went with them into the forest and to the 
faisanerie, and picked masses of wild lilies of 
the valley. In the palace gardens we saw 
the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess, a very 
handsome couple : she the only daughter of 
the King of Prussia. At the station also I 
saw again, and for the last time, the very 
pleasing Queen Emma of the Sandwich 
Islands, and presented the Bunsens to her. 1 
On the eve of Trinity Sunday we reached 

1 Queen Emma died in 1885. 


From my JOURNAL. 

"July 30, 1866. Holmhurst. Another happy 
summer ! How different my grown-up-hood has been 
to my boyhood: now all sunshine, then all reproach 
and misery. How strange it is that my dearest mother 
remembers nothing of those days, nothing of those 
years of bitter heartache which my uncles' wives cost 
me. But her present love, her beautiful full heart devo- 
tion, are all free-will offering, not sacrifice of atonement. 
Our little Holmhurst is most lovely and peaceful." 

In August we spent a fortnight at the 
Deanery at Westminster with Arthur and 
Augusta Stanley, the latter Jit les delices of 
all who came under her influence, and both 
were most kind in asking every one to meet us 
that they thought we could be interested to 
see. To me, however, no one was ever half 
so interesting as Arthur himself, and his con- 
versation at these small Deanery dinner-parties 
was most delightful, though, as I have heard 
another say, and perhaps justly, " it was always 
versatile rather than accurate, brilliant rather 
than profound." From London we went to 
look after our humble friends at Alton, where 
all the villagers welcomed my mother with a 
most touching wealth of evergreen love, and 
where forty old people came to supper by her 
invitation in the barn. The owls hissed over- 


head in the oak rafters ; the feast was lighted 
by candles stuck into empty ginger-beer bottles, 
and in quavering voices they all drank the 
mother's health. She made them a sweet little 


speech, praying that all those who were there 
might meet with her at the great supper of the 
Lamb. I had much interest at Alton in finding 
out those particulars which form the account 
of the place in " Memorials of a Quiet Life." 


The interest of the people, utterly unspoilt by 
" civilisation," can hardly be described, or the 
simplicity of their faith. Speaking of her long 
troubles and illness, " Betty Smith" said, "I 
ha' been sorely tried, but it be a' to help I on 
to thick there place." William Pontyn said, 
"It just be a comfort to I to know that God 
Almighty's always at whom : He never goes 
out on a visit." Their use of fine words is 
very comical. Old Pontyn said, " My son-in- 
law need na treat I ill, for I niver gied un no 
publication for it." He thanked mother for 
her "respectable gift," and said, "I do thank 
God ivery morning and ivery night, that I do ; 
and thank un as I may, I niver can thank un 
enough, He be so awful good to I." He said 
the noise the threshing-machine made when 
out of order was "fierly ridic'lous," and that he 
was "fierly gallered (frightened) at it"- that 
he was "obliged to flagellate the ducks to get 
them out of the pond." 

I drove with Mr. Pile to see the remains of 
Wolf Hall, on the edge of Savernake Forest, 
where Henry VIII. married Jane Seymour. 
The house, once of immense size, is nearly 
destroyed. The roof of the banqueting-hall 
is now the roof of a barn. The beautiful 
fragment of building remaining was once the 


laundry. Hard by, at Burbage, is " Jane Sey- 
mour's Pool." 

After leaving Alton, as if making the round of 
my mother's old homes, we went to Buntings- 
dale, Hodnet, and Stoke. While at the former, I 
remember the Tayleurs being full of the promp- 
titude of old Mrs. Massie (whose son Edward 
married our cousin Sophy Mytton). When 
above ninety she had been taken to see the 
church of Northwich, where some one pointed 
out to her a gravestone with the epitaph 

" Some have children, and some have none ; 
Here lies the mother of twenty-one." 

Old Mrs. Massie drew herself up to her full 
height and at once made this impromptu 

" Some have many, and some have few ; 
Here stands the mother of twenty-two." 

And what she said was true. 

My mother turned south from Shropshire, 
and I went to Lyme, near Disley, the fine old 
house of the Leghs, whose then head, W. T. 
Legh, had married Emily Wodehouse, one of 
the earliest friends of my childhood. It is a 
most stately old house, standing high in a very 
wild park, one of the only three places where 
wild cattle are not extinct. The story of the 
place is curious. 



"Old Colonel Legh of Lyme left his property first 
to his son Torn, but though Tom Legh was twice 
married, he had no sons, so it came to the father of 
the present possessor. Tom's first wife had been the 
celebrated Miss Turner. Her father was a Manchester 
manufacturer, who had bought the property of Shrigley, 
near Lyme, of which his only daughter was the heiress. 
She was carried off from school by a conspiracy be- 
tween three brothers named Gibbon Wakefield and 
a Miss Davis, daughter of a very respectable master 
of the Grammar School at Macclesfield. While at 
school, Miss Turner received a letter from home which 
mentioned casually that her family had changed their 
butler. Two days after, a person purporting to be 
the new butler came to the school, and sent in a letter 
to say that Mr. Turner was dangerously ill, and that 
he was sent to fetch his daughter, who was to return 
home at once. In the greatest hurry, Miss Turner 
was got ready and sent off. When they had gone 
some way, the carriage stopped, and a young man got 
in, who said that he had been sent to break to her 
the news that her father's illness was a fiction; that 
they did not wish to spread the truth by letting the 
governess know, but that the fact was that Mr. Turner 
had got into some terrible money difficulties and was 
completely ruined, and he begged that his daughter 
would proceed at once to meet him in Scotland, whither 
he was obliged to go to evade his creditors. During 
the journey the young man who was sent to chaperon 
Miss Turner made himself most agreeable. At last 
they reached Berwick, and then at the inn, going out 
of the room, he returned with a letter and said that 


he was almost afraid to tell her its contents, but that 
it was sent by her father's command, and that he only 
implored her to forgive him for obeying her father's 
orders. It was a most urgent letter from her father, 
saying that it rested with her to extricate him from his 
difficulties, which she could do by consenting to marry 
the bearer. The man was handsome and pleasant, and 
the marriage seemed no great trial to the girl, who 
was under fifteen. Immediately after marriage she 
was taken to Paris. 

" Meantime all the gentlemen in the county rallied 
round Mr. Turner, and he contrived somehow to get 
his daughter away whilst she was in Paris. Suspicion 
had been first excited in the mind of the governess 
because letters for Miss Turner continued to arrive 
at the school from Shrigley, and she gave the alarm. 
There was a great trial, at which all the gentlemen in 
Cheshire accompanied Mr. Turner when he appeared 
leading his daughter. The marriage was pronounced 
null and void, and one of the Gibbon Wakefields was 
imprisoned at Lancaster for five years, the others for 
two. It was the utmost punishment that could be 
given for misdemeanour, and nothing more could be 
proved. The Gibbon Wakefields had thought that, 
rather than expose his daughter to three days in a 
witness box, Mr. Turner would consent to a regular 
marriage, and they had relied upon that. Miss Turner 
was afterwards married to Mr. Legh, in the hope of 
uniting two fine properties, but as she had no son, 
her daughter, Mrs. Lowther, is now the mistress of 



" Lyme Hall, August 29, 1866. I have been with 
Mrs. Legh to Bramhall, the fine old house of the 
Davenports, near Stockport, with the haunted room 
of Lady Dorothy Davenport and no end of relics. Out 
of the billiard-room opens the parish church, in the 
same style as the house, with prayer-books chained to 
the seats. We returned by Marple, the wonderfully 
curious old house of Bradshaw the regicide." 

" Sept. I. To-day we had a charming drive over 
the hills, the green glens of pasture-land, the steeps, 
and the tossing burns recalling those of Westmore- 
land. I went with Mrs. Legh into one of the cottages 
and admired the blue wash of the room, ' Oh, you 
like it, do ye ? ' said the mistress of the house ; ' I 
don't so that's difference of opinions.' The whole 
ceiling was hung with different kinds of herbs, 'for 
we're our own doctors, ye see, and it saves the 
physic bills.' 

"The four children Sybil and Mob (Mabel), Tom 
and Gilbert Legh, are delightful, and Sybil quite lovely. 
It is a pleasure to hear the little feet come scampering 
down the oak staircase, as the four rush down to the 
library to ask for a story at seven o'clock 'A nice 
horrible story, all about robbers and murders : now do 
tell us a really horrible one.' " 

" Thornycroft Hall, Cheshire, Sept. 3. The family 
here are much depressed by the reappearance of the 
cattle plague. In the last attack sixty-eight cows died, 


and so rapidly that men had to be up all night bury- 
ing them by lantern-light in one great grave in the 
park. . . . How curious the remains of French ex- 
pressions are as used by the cottagers here. They 
speak of carafes of water, and say they should not 
oss (oser) to do a thing. The other day one of the 
Birtles tenants was being examined as a witness at the 
Manchester assizes. 'You told me so and so, didn't 
you ? ' said the lawyer. And the man replied, ' I tell't 
ye nowt o' the kind, ye powther-headed monkey ; ask 
the coompany now if I did.' " 

From Thornycroft I went to stay (only three 
miles off) at Birtles, the charming, comfortable 
home of the Hibberts very old friends of 
all our family. Mrs. Hibbert, nee Caroline 
Cholmondeley, was very intimate with my 
aunt Mrs. Stanley, and a most interesting and 
agreeable person ; and I always found a visit 
to Birtles a most admirable discipline, as my 
great ignorance was so much discovered and 
commented upon, that it was always a stimulus 
to further exertion. It was on this occasion 
that Mrs. Hibbert told me a very remarkable 
story. It had been told her by Mrs. Gaskell 
the authoress, who said that she felt so greatly 
the uncertainty of life, that she wished a story 
which might possibly be of consequence, and 
which had been intrusted to her, to remain 
with some one who was certain to record it 


accurately. Three weeks afterwards, sitting 
by the fire with her daughter, Mrs. Gaskell 
died suddenly in her arm-chair. Mrs. Hibbert, 
in her turn, wished to share her trust with some 
one, and she selected me. 

In my childhood I remember well the Misses T., who 
were great friends of my aunt Mrs. Stanley, and very 
clever agreeable old ladies. " Many years before," as 
Mrs. Gaskell described to Mrs. Hibbert, " they had had 
the care of a young cousin, a girl whose beauty and 
cleverness were a great delight to them. But when 
she was very young, indeed in the first year of her 
1 coming out/ she engaged herself to marry a Major 
Alcock. In a worldly point of view the marriage was 
all that could be desired. Major Alcock was a man of 
fortune with a fine place in Leicestershire : he was a 
good man, of high character, and likely to make an 
excellent husband. Still it was a disappointment an 
almost unspoken disappointment to her friends that 
the young lady should marry so soon 'she was 
so young,' they thought; she had had so few oppor- 
tunities of judging persons ; they had looked forward 
to having her so much longer with them,' &c. 

"When Mrs. Alcock went to her new home in 
Leicestershire, it was a great comfort to the Misses T. 
and others who cared for her that some old friends of 
the family would be her nearest neighbours, and could 
keep them cognisant of how she was going on. For 
some time the letters of these friends described Mrs. 
Alcock as radiantly, perfectly happy. Mrs. Alcock's 
own letters also gave glowing descriptions of her home, 


of the kindness of her husband, of her own perfect 
felicity. But after a time a change came over the 
letters on both sides. The neighbours described Mrs. 
Alcock as sad and pale, and constantly silent and pre- 
occupied, and in the letters of Mrs. Alcock herself 
there was a reserve and want of all her former cheer- 
fulness, which aroused great uneasiness. 

"The Misses T. went to see Mrs. Alcock, and found 
her terribly, awfully changed haggard, worn, pre- 
occupied, with an expression of fixed melancholy in 
her eyes. Both to them and to the doctors who were 
called in to her she said that the cause of her suffering 
was that, waking or sleeping, she seemed to see before 
her a face, the face of a man whom she exactly de- 
scribed, and that she was sure that some dreadful 
misfortune was about to befall her from the owner of 
that face. Waking, she seemed to see it, or, if she 
fell asleep, she dreamt of it. The doctors said that it 
was a case of what is known as phantasmagoria ; that 
the fact was that in her unmarried state Mrs. Alcock had 
not only had every indulgence and consideration, but 
that even the ordinary rubs of practical life had been 
warded off from her; and that having been suddenly 
transplanted into being the head of a large estab- 
lishment in Leicestershire, with quantities of visitors 
coming and going throughout the hunting season, had 
been too much for a very peculiar and nervous tempera- 
ment, and that over-fatigue and unwonted excitement 
had settled into this peculiar form of delusion. She 
must have perfect rest, they said, and her mind would 
soon recover its usual tone. 

"This was acted upon. The house in Leicestershire 


was shut up, and Major and Mrs. Alcock went abroad 
for the summer. The remedy completely answered. 
Mrs. Alcock forgot all about the face, slept well, en- 
joyed herself extremely and became perfectly healthy 
in body and mind. So well was she, that it was 
thought a pity to run the risk of bringing her 
back to Leicestershire just before the hunting season, 
the busiest time there, and it was decided to estab- 
lish her cure by taking her to pass the winter at 

" One of the oldest established hotels in Rome is the 
Hotel d'Angleterre in the Bocca di Leone. It was to it 
that travellers generally went first when they arrived 
at Rome in the old vetturino days ; and there, by the 
fountain near the hotel door which plays into a sar- 
cophagus under the shadow of two old pepper-trees, 
idle contadini used to collect in old days to see the 
foreigners arrive. So I remember it in the happy old 
days, and so it was on the evening on which the 
heavily laden carriage of the Alcock family rolled into 
the Bocca di Leone and stopped at the door of the 
Hotel d'Angleterre. Major Alcock got out, and Mrs. 
Alcock got out, but, as she was descending the steps 
of the carriage, she happened to glance round at the 
group under the pepper-trees, and she uttered a 
piercing shriek, fell down upon the ground, and was 
carried unconscious into the hotel. 

" When Mrs. Alcock came to herself, she affirmed that 
amongst the group near the door of the hotel she had 
recognised the owner of the face which had so long 
tormented her, and she was certain that some dreadful 
misfortune was about to overwhelm her. Doctors, 


summoned in haste, when informed of her previous 
condition, declared that the same results were owing 
to the same causes. Major Alcock, who disliked bad 
hotels, had insisted on posting straight through to 
Rome from Perugia ; there had been difficulties about 
horses, altercations with the post-boys in fact, 'the 
delusion of Mrs. Alcock was owing, as before, to over- 
fatigue and excitement: she must have perfect rest, 
and she would soon recover.' 

"So it proved. Quiet and rest soon restored Mrs. 
Alcock, and she was soon able to enjoy going about 
quietly and entering into the interests of Rome. It was 
decided that she should be saved all possible fatigue, 
even the slight one of Roman housekeeping: so the 
family remained at the Hotel d'Angleterre. Towards 
January, however, Mrs. Alcock was so well that they sent 
out some of the numerous letters of introduction which 
they had brought with them, and, in answer to these, 
many of the Romans came to call. One day a Roman 
Marchese was shown upstairs to the Alcocks' room, and 
another gentleman went up with him. The Marchese 
thought, ' Another visitor come to call at the same time 
as myself,' the waiter, having only one name given 
him, thought, 'The Marchese and his brother, or the 
Marchese and a friend,' and they were shown in 
together. As they entered the room, Mrs. Alcock 
was sitting on the other side of the fire ; she jumped 
up, looked suddenly behind the Marchese at his 
companion, again uttered a fearful scream, and again 
fell down insensible. Both gentlemen .backed out of 
the room, and the Marchese said in a well-bred way 
that as the Signora was suddenly taken ill, he should 


hope for another opportunity of seeing her. The other 
gentleman went out at the same time. 

" Again medical assistance was summoned, and again 
the same cause was ascribed to Mrs. Alcock' s illness : 
this time she was said to be over-fatigued by sight- 
seeing. Again quiet and rest seemed to restore her. 

"It was the spring of 1848 the year of the Louis 
Philippe revolution. Major Alcock had a younger sister 
to whom he was sole guardian, and who was at school 
in Paris, and he told his wife that, in the troubled state 
of political affairs, he could not reconcile it to his 
conscience to leave her there unprotected; he must 
go and take her away. Mrs. Alcock begged that, if 
he went, she might go with him, but naturally he 
said that was impossible there might be bloodshed 
going on there might be barricades to get over there 
might be endless difficulties in getting out of Paris; 
at any rate, there would be a hurried and exciting 
journey, which would be sure to bring back her malady : 
no, she had friends at Rome, she must stay quietly 
there at the hotel till he came back. Mrs. Alcock, with 
the greatest excitement, entreated, implored her husband 
upon her knees that she might go with him ; but Major 
Alcock thought this very excitement was the more 
reason for leaving her behind, and he went without her. 

" As all know, the Louis Philippe revolution was a 
very slight affair. The English had no difficulty in 
getting out of Paris, and in a fortnight Major Alcock 
was back in Rome, bringing his sister with him. When 
he arrived, Mrs. Alcock was gone. She was never, 
never heard of again. There was no trace of her 
whatever. All that ever was known of Mrs. Alcock 


was that, on the day of her disappearance, some people 
who knew her were walking in front of S. John 
Lateran, and saw a carriage driving very rapidly 
towards the Porta S. Giovanni Laterano, and in it 
sat Mrs. Alcock crying and wringing her hands as if 
her heart would break, and by her side there sat a 
strange man, with the face she had so often described." 

I have my own theories as to the explanation 
of this strange story of Mrs. Alcock, but as 
they are evolved entirely from my own imagi- 
nation, I will not mention them here. 

From Cheshire I went to North Wales to 
pay a visit to our cousinhood at Bodryddan, 
which had been the home of my grandmother's 
only brother, the Dean of St. Asaph. The 
place has been spoilt since, but was very 
charming in those days. Under an old clock- 
tower one entered upon a handsome drive with 
an avenue of fine elms, on the right of which a 
lawn, with magnificent firs, oaks, and cedars, 
swept away to the hills. At the end rose the 
stately old red brick house, half covered with 
magnolias, myrtles, and buddlea, with blazing 
beds of scarlet and yellow flowers lighting up 
its base. Through an oak hall hung with 
armour a fine staircase led to the library an 
immense room with two deep recesses, entirely 
furnished with black oak from Copenhagen, 


and adorned with valuable enamels collected at 
Lisbon. The place had belonged to the Conwys, 
and that family ended in three sisters, Lady 
Stapleton, Mrs. Cotton, and Mrs. Yonge : they 
had equal shares. Mrs. Cotton bought up Lady 


Stapleton's share, and left it with her own to 
the two daughters of her sister Mrs. Yonge, of 
whom the elder married my great-uncle, Dean 
Shipley, and was the mother of William and 
Charles Shipley and of the three female first 


cousins (Penelope, Mrs. Pelham Warren ; 
Emily, Mrs. Heber; and Anna Maria, Mrs. 
Dashwood) who played so large a part in the 
early history of my father and his brothers, 
and who are frequently mentioned in the first 
volume of these memoirs. 

When Dean Shipley married, he removed 
to his wife's house of Bodryddan. Miss Yonge 
lived with them, and after her sister's death 
the Dean was most anxious to marry her, trying 
to obtain an Act of Parliament for the purpose. 
For some years their aunt, Lady Stapleton, also 
continued to hold a life-interest in the property. 
Of this lady there is a curious portrait at 
Bodryddan. She is represented with her two 
children and a little Moor, for whom her own 
little boy had conceived the most passionate 
attachment, and from whom . he could never 
bear to be separated. One night, after this 
little Moor was grown up, Lady Stapleton, 
returning very late from a ball, went to bed, 
leaving all her diamonds lying upon the table. 
Being awakened by a noise in the room, she 
saw the Moor come in with a large knife in 
his hand, and begin gathering up her jewels. 
Never losing her presence of mind, she raised 
herself up in bed, and, fixing her eyes upon 
him, exclaimed in a thrilling tone of reproach, 


" Pompey, is that you?" This she did three 
times, and the third time the Moor, covering 
his face with his hands, rushed out of the room. 
Nothing was heard of him till many years 
afterwards, when the chaplain of a Devonshire 
gaol wrote to Lady Stapleton that one of his 
prisoners, under sentence of death for murder, 
was most anxious to see her. She was unable 
to go, but heard afterwards that it was Pompey, 
who said that on the night he entered her 
room he had intended to kill her, but that 
when she spoke, such a sense of his ingrati- 
tude overwhelmed him, that he was unable 
to do it. 

As an ecclesiastical dignitary, Dean Shipley 
would certainly be called to account in our 
days. He was devoted to hunting and shoot- 
ing, and used to go up for weeks together to a 
little public-house in the hills above Bodryddan, 
where he gave himself up entirely to the society 
of his horses and dogs. He had led a very fast 
life before he took orders, and he had a natural 
daughter by a Mrs. Hamilton, who became the 
second wife of our grandfather ; but after his 
ordination there was no further stain upon his 
character. As a father he was exceedingly 
severe. He never permitted his daughters to 
sit down in his presence, and he never allowed 


two of them to be in the room with him at 
once, because he could not endure the addi- 
tional talking caused by their speaking to one 
another. His daughter Anna Maria had be- 
come engaged to Captain Dashwood, a very 
handsome young officer, but before the time 
came at which he was to claim her hand, he 
was completely paralysed, crippled, and almost 
imbecile. Then she flung herself upon her knees, 
imploring her father with tears not to insist 
upon her marriage with him ; but the Dean 
sternly refused to relent, saying she had given 
her word, and must keep to it. 

She nursed Captain Dashwood indefatigably 
till he died, and then she came back to Bodryd- 
dan, and lived there with her aunt Mrs. Yonge, 
finding it dreadfully dull, for she was a brilliant 
talker and adored society. At last she went 
abroad with her aunt Louisa Shipley, and at 
Corfu she met Sir Thomas Maitland, who gave 
her magnificent diamonds, and asked her to 
marry him. But she insisted on coming home 
to ask her father's consent, at which the Dean 
was quite furious. " Why could you not marry 
him at once ? " and indeed, before she could 
get back to her lover, he died ! 

After the death of Mrs. Yonge, Mrs. Dash- 
wood lived at Cheltenham, a rich and clever 


widow, and had many proposals. To the dis- 
gust of her family, she insisted upon accepting 
Colonel Jones, who had been a neighbour at 
Bodryddan, and was celebrated for his fear- 
fully violent temper. The day before the wed- 
ding it was nearly all off, because, when he 
came to look at her luggage, he insisted on her 
having only one box, and stamped all her things 
down into it, spoiling all her new dresses. He 
made her go with him for a wedding tour all over 
Scotland in a pony-carriage, without a maid, and 
she hated it ; but in a year he died. 

Then she insisted on marrying the Rev. G. 
Chetwode, who had had one wife before and 
had two afterwards an old beau, who used to 
comb his hair with a leaden comb to efface the 
grey. On her death he inherited all she had 
diamonds, ^2000 a year, all the fine pictures 
left her by Mr. Jones, and all those Landor 
had collected for her in Italy. 

But to return to Dean Shipley. To Mrs. 
Rowley, who was the mistress of Bodryddan 
when I was there, the Dean had been the 
kindest of grandfathers, and she had no recol- 
lection of him which was not associated with 
the most unlimited -indulgence. The Dean was 
much interested in the management of his 
estate, but he insisted that every detail should 


pass through his own hands. For instance, 
while he was absent in London, a number of 
curious images and carvings in alabaster were 
discovered under the pavement at Bodryddan : 
news was immediately sent to him, but he 
desired that everything should be covered up, 
and remain till he came home. On his return, 
he put off the examination from time to time, 
till, on his death, the place was forgotten, and 
now no one is able to discover it. 

Mrs. Rowley was the beautiful Charlotte, only 
daughter of Colonel William Shipley, and had 
led an adventurous life, distinguishing herself 
by her bravery and heroism during the plague 
while she was in the East, and on various other 
occasions. By her marriage with Colonel Row- 
ley, second son of the first Lord Langford, 
she had three children, Shipley Conwy, the 
present owner of Bodryddan ; Gwynydd, who 
has married twice ; and Efah, who, after her 
mother's death, made a happy marriage with 
Captain Somerset. 

In her early married life, Mrs. Rowley had 
lived much in Berkeley Square with her 
mother-in-law, old Lady Langford, who was 
the original of Lady Kew in " The Newcomes," 
and many pitched battles they had, in which the 
daughter-in-law generally came off victorious. 



Lady Langford had been very beautiful, clever, 
and had had une vie tres orageuse. She had 
much excuse, however. She had only once 
seen her cousin, Lord Langford, when he came 
to visit her grandmother, and the next day the 
old lady told her she was to marry him. " Very 
well, grandmama, but when ? " " I never in my 
life heard such an impertinent question," said 
the grandmother ; " what business is it of yours 
when you are to marry him ? You will marry 
him when I tell you. However, whenever you 
hear me order six horses to the carriage, you 
may know that you are going to be married." 
And so it was. 

At the time I was at Bodryddan, the most 
devoted and affectionate deference was shown 
by Mrs. Rowley to every word, movement, 
or wish of her only brother, Colonel Shipley 
Conwy. He looked still young, but was quite 
helpless from paralysis. Mrs. Rowley sat by 
him and fed him like a child. It was one 
mouthful for her brother, the next for herself. 
When dinner was over, a servant came in and 
wrung his arms and legs, as you would pull 
bell-ropes, to prevent the joints from stiffening 
(a process repeated several times in the even- 
ing), and then carried him out. But with all 
this, Colonel Shipley Conwy always patient 


was very bright and pleasant, and Mrs. Rowley, 
who said that she owed everything to my 
father and his interest in her education, was 
most cordial in welcoming me. I never saw 
either of these cousins again. They spent the 
next two winters at the Cape, and both died 
a few years afterwards. 

A little later, I went to stay at Dalton Hall 
in Lancashire, to visit Mrs. Hornby, a cousin 
of my Aunt Penrhyn, and a very sweet and 
charming old lady, who never failed to be loved 
by all who came within her influence. She 
told me many old family stories, amongst 
others how 

"The late Lord Derby (the ijth Earl) was very 
fond of natural history even as a boy. One night he 
dreamt most vividly of a rare nest in the ivy on the 
wall, and that he was most anxious to get it, but it 
was impossible. In the morning, the nest was on his 
dressing-table, and it could only have got there by his 
opening the window in his sleep and climbing the wall 
to it in that state. 

" Another instance of his sleep-walking relates that 
he had a passion, as a little boy, for sliding down the 
banisters, but it was strictly forbidden. One night 
his tutor had been sitting up late reading in the hall, 
when he saw one of the bedroom doors open, and a 
little boy come out in his night-shirt and slide down 
the banisters. This he did two or three times, and 
when the tutor made some little noise, he ran upstairs 


and disappeared into his bedroom. The tutor followed, 
but the little boy was fast asleep in bed." 

Apropos of sleep-walking, Mr. Bagot (hus- 
band of Mrs. Hornby's daughter Lucy) told 
me a story he had just seen in the Times : 

" A large pat of butter was lately on the breakfast 
table of a family. When it was divided, a gold watch 
and chain were found in the midst of it. The maid 
who was waiting gave a shriek, and first rushed off to 
her room, then, coming back, declared it was hers. 
The family were much surprised, but what she said 
turned out to be true. She had dreamt that she was 
going to be robbed of her watch and chain, and that 
the only way of hiding them would be to wrap them up 
in a pat of butter, and she had done it in her sleep." 

A sister-in-law of Mrs. Hornby a Mrs. 
Bayley was staying at Dalton when I was 
there. She told me first hand a story of 
which I have heard many distorted versions. 
I give it in her words : 

" My sister, Mrs. Hamilton (nee Armstrong), was 
one night going to bed, when she saw a man's foot 
project from under the bed. She knelt down then and 
there by the bedside and prayed for the wicked people 
who were going about for the known wicked person 
especially that they might be converted. When she 
concluded, the man came from under the bed and said, 
1 I have heard your prayer, ma'am, and with all my 


heart I say Amen to it ; ' and he did her no harm and 
went away. She heard from him years afterwards, 
and he was a changed man from that day." 

Apropos of the growth of a story by ex- 
aggeration, Mrs. Bayley said : 

" The first person said, ' Poor Mrs. Richards was so 
ill that what she threw up was almost like a black 
crow.' The second said, ' Poor Mrs. Richards was so 
ill : it was the most dreadful thing, she actually threw 
up a black crow.' The third said, ' Poor Mrs. Richards 
has the most dreadful malady : it is almost too terrible 
to speak of, but she has already thrown up ... three 
black crows.' " 

Mrs. Bayley was a very "religious" person, 
but she never went to church ; she thought 
it wrong. She called herself an "unattached 
Christian," and said that people only ought to 
go to church for praise, biit to do their con- 
fessions at home. When I left Dalton, she 
presented me with a little book, which she 
begged me not to read till I was quite away. 
It was called " Do you belong to the Hellfire 
Club ? " It was not an allegorical little book, 
but really and seriously asked the question, 
saying that, though not generally known, such 
a club really existed, where the most frightful 
mysteries were enacted, and that it was just 


within the bounds of possibility that I might 
secretly belong to it, and if so, &c., &c. A 
similar little book was once thrust into my hand 
by a lady at the top of St. James's Street. 

On the 2Qth of October 1866 we left England 
for Cannes, stopping on the way at Ville- 
franche, that we might visit Ars, for the sake 
of its venerable Cure. 


" Nov. 1 866. It was a pretty and peculiar drive to 
Ars : first wooded lanes, then high open country, from 
whence you descend abruptly upon the village, which, 
with its picturesque old church, and the handsome 
wooden one behind it, quite fills the little hollow in the 
hills. The village itself is almost made up of hotels 
for the pilgrims, but is picturesque at this season, with 
masses of golden vine falling over all the high walls. 
We left the carriage at the foot of the church steps, 
and ascended through* a little square crowded with 
beggars, as in the time of the Cure. 1 The old church is 
exceedingly interesting. In the middle of the floor is 
the grave of the Cure, once surrounded by a balustrade 
hung with immortelles, which are now in the room 
where he died. At the sides are all the little chapels 
he built at the different crises of his life, that of 
S. Philomene being quite filled with crutches, left by 
lame persons who have gone away cured. Beyond 
the old church opens out the handsome but less 

1 Jean Baptiste Marie Vianney. 


interesting modern building erected by the Empress 
and the bishops, with a grand baldacchino on red 
granite pillars, and on the altar a beautiful bas-relief 
of the Cure" carried to heaven by angels. In the old 
church a missionary was giving the pilgrims (who 
kept flocking in the whole time) a very beautiful and 
simple exposition on the life of Christ as a loving 
Saviour, quite carrying on the teaching of the Curd 

"At half-past twelve a Sister of Charity came to 
show the Curb's room. It is railed off, because the 
pilgrims would have carried everything away, as they 
have almost undermined the thick walls in their eager- 
ness to possess themselves of the bits of stone and 
plaster ; but you see the narrow bed, the poor broken 
floor, his chair, his table, his pewter spoon and earthen- 
ware pot, the picture which was defiled by the Demon, 
the door at which 'the Grappin ' knocked, the narrow 
staircase from which he shouted ' Mangeur de truflfes,' 
the still poorer room downstairs where the beloved 
Curd lay when all his people passed by to see him in 
his last sleep, the little court shaded by ancient elder- 
trees in which he gave his incessant charities, and 
close by the little house of his servant Catherine. She 
herself is the sweetest old woman, seeming to live, in 
her primitive life, upon the gleanings and the teaching 
of the past. She sate on a low stool at Mother's feet, 
and talked in the most touching way of her dear Curd 
When Mother said something about the crowds that 
came to him, she said, ' I have always heard that when 
the dear Saviour was on earth, He was so sweet and 
loving, that people liked to be near Him, and I suppose 
that now when men are sweet and loving, and so a 


little like the dear Saviour, people like to be near them 
too.' In a small chapel of the school he founded they 
showed some blood of the Cure in a bottle ' encore 
coulant? Many other people we saw who talked of 
him ' Comme il etait gai, toujours gai/ &c. The whole 
place seemed cut out of the world, in an atmosphere 
of peace and prayer, like a little heaven: no wonder 
Roman Catholics like to go into ' Retreat ' there." 

We stayed afterwards at Aries, and made the 
excursion to S. Remy, one of the most ex- 
quisitely beautiful places I have ever seen, 
where Roman remains, grand in form and of 
the most splendid orange colouring, rise close 
to the delicate Alpines. 

At Cannes we were most fortunate in finding 
a house exactly suited to our needs a primitive 
bastide, approached by a long pergola of vines, 
on the way to the Croix des Gardes, quite high 
up in woods of myrtle and pine upon the 
mountain-side. 1 It was far out of the town 
and dreadfully desolate at night, but in the 
daytime there were exquisite views through 
the woods of the sea and mountains, and a 
charming terraced garden of oranges and cassia 
the vegetation quite tropical. Close to the 
turn into our pergola was a little shrine of S. 

1 All this picturesque side of Cannes has since been spoilt and 

1 866] 



Francois, which gave a name to our cottage, 
and which the peasants, passing to their work in 
the forests, daily presented with fresh flowers. 
Delightful walks led beyond us into the hilly 
pine woods with a soil of glistening mica, and, 

if one penetrated far enough, one came out 
upon the grand but well-concealed precipices 
of rock known as the Rochers de Bilheres. 
Just below us lived Lord Mount-Edgcumbe, 
the " Valletort " of my Harrow days, with his 

From ' Somh-Kastern France.' 




sweet invalid wife, and their three little girls, 
with the little Valletort of this time, were a 
perpetual pleasure to my mother in her morning 
walk to the Croix des Gardes. Old Madame 
Boeuf, our landlady, used to come up every 
morning in her large flapping Provencal hat 


to work with her women amongst the cassia : 
the sunshine seemed almost ceaseless, and all 
winter we used to sit with open windows and 
hear our maid Marguerite carolling her strange 
patois ballads at her work. 

1 From "South-Eastern France." 


On the other side of Cannes, at the Hotel 
de Provence, we had a large group of friends, 
Lady Verulam and her sons ; Lord and Lady 
Suffolk and their two daughters ; and the 
Dowager Lady Morley with her son and 
daughter. With the latter I became very in- 
timate, and joined them in many long and 
delightful excursions to remote villages and to 
the unspeakably grand scenery above the Var. 
Lady Suffolk too became a dear and much 
honoured friend. 

A still greater pleasure was the neighbour- 
hood, in a small house by the torrent at the 
foot of our hill, of the dear old Lady Grey of 
our Nice days, and her niece Miss G. Des 
Voeux. I generally dined with them once or 
twice a week, and constantly accompanied them 
on delightful drawing excursions, taking our 
luncheon with us. In the spring I went away 
with them for several days together to the wild 
mountains of S. Vallier and S. Cesaire. Lady 
Grey painted beautifully, though she only began 
to be an artist when she was quite an old 
woman. She always went out sketching with 
thirty-nine articles, which one servant called 
over at the door, another answering "Here" 
for each, to secure that nothing should be left 




Beneath us, at the Hotel Bellevue, were 
Lady Jocelyn and her children, with Lord and 
Lady Vernon and Mr. and Lady Louisa Wells, 
whom we saw frequently ; also three admirable 
Scotch sisters, Mrs. Douglas, Miss Kennedy, 
and Mrs. Tootal. Hither also came for two 
months our dear friend Miss Wright ("Aunt 
Sophy"), and she was a constant pleasure, 


dropping in daily at tea-time, and always the 
most sympathising of human beings both in 
joy and sorrow. 

Altogether, none of our winters was so rich 
in pleasant society as this one at Cannes, and we 
had nothing to trouble us till the spring, when 
Lea was taken very seriously ill from the bite 
either of scorpion or tarantula, and, while she 
was at the worst and unable to move, my 




mother became alarmingly ill too with a fever. 
I was up with them through every night at 
this time ; and it was an odd life in the little 
desolate bastide, as it was long impossible to pro- 
cure help. At length we got a Sceur de Charite 


a pretty creature in a most picturesque nun's 
dress, but efficient for very little except the 
manufacture and consumption of convent soup, 
made with milk, tapioca, and pepper. 

Still, for the most part, my mother had not 


been so well or so perfectly happy for years as 
in our little hermitage amid the juniper and 
rosemary. It was just what she most enjoyed, 
the walks all within her compass perfect 
country, invariably dry and healthy, perpetual 
warmth in which to sit out, and endless sub- 
jects for her sketch-book. Lea, rejoiced to be 
rid for some months of her tiresome husband, 
found plenty of occupation in her kitchen and in 
attending to the poultry which she bought and 
reared ; while I was engrossed with my draw- 
ings, of which I sold enough to pay our rent 
very satisfactorily, and with my " Lives of the 
Popes," a work on which I spent an immense 
amount of time, but which is still unfinished 
in MS., and likely to remain so. My mother 
greatly appreciated the church at Cannes, and 
we liked the clergyman, Mr. Rolfe, and his wife. 
His sermons were capital. I do not often 
attend to sermons, but I remember an excellent 
one on Zacharias praying for vengeance, and 
Stephen for mercy on his murderers, as re- 
spectively illustrating the principles of the Old 
and New Testament Justice and Mercy. 

I dined once or twice, to meet Mr. Panizzi l 
of the British Museum, at the house of a quaint 
old Mr. Kerr, who died soon afterwards. It 

1 Afterwards Sir Antonio Panizzi. 


was him of whom it used to be said that he 
had been " try ing to make himself disagreeable 
for sixty years and had not quite succeeded." 
When he was eighty he told me that there were 
three things he had never had : he had never 
had a watch, he had never had a key, and he 
had never had an account. 

I frequently saw the famous old Lord 
Brougham, who bore no trace then of his 
" flashes of oratory," of his " thunder and light- 
ning speeches," but was the most disagreeable, 
selfish, cantankerous, violent old man who ever 
lived. He used to swear by the hour together at 
his sister-in-law, Mrs. William Brougham, 1 who 
lived with him, and bore his ill-treatment with 
consummate patience. He would curse her in 
the most horrible language before all her guests, 
and this not for anything she had done, but 
merely to vent his spite and ill-humour. Though 
a proper carriage was always provided for him, 
he would insist upon driving about Cannes 
daily in the most disreputable old fly he could 
procure, with the hope that people would say 
he was neglected by his family. Yet he pre- 
ferred the William Broughams to his other 
relations, and entirely concealing that he had 

1 Emily, only daughter of Sir Charles Taylor of Hollycombe, after- 
wards Lady Brougham and Vaux. 


other brothers, procured the reversion of his 
title to his youngest brother, William, much to 
the annoyance of the Queen when she found it 
out. Lord Brougham was repulsive in appear- 
ance and excessively dirty in his habits. He 
had always been so. Mr. Kerr remembered 
seeing him at the Beefsteak Club, when the 
Prince Regent was President, and there was 
the utmost license of manners. One day when 
he came in, the Prince Regent roared out, 
" How dare you come in here, Brougham, with 
those dirty hands?" and he insisted on the 
waiters bringing soap and water and having his 
hands washed before all the company. In early 
life, if anything aggravated him at dinner, he 
would throw his napkin in the face of his 
guests, and he did things quite as insulting to 
the close of his life at Cannes, where he had a 
peculiar prestige, as having, through his " Villa 
Louise Eleanore," l first brought the place into 
fashion, which led to the extension of a humble 
fishing village into miles upon miles of villas 
and hotels. 

To Miss WRIGHT (after she had gone on to Rome). 

" Mais on S. Frangois, Cannes, Feb. 2, 1867. On 
Tuesday we made an immense excursion of thirteen 

1 The name of his daughter, who died in 1839. 


hours to the ' Seven villages of the Var.' The party 
consisted of Lord Morley and Lady Katherine, Lord 
Suffolk and Lady Victoria, Lord Henry Percy, Lord 
Mount-Edgcumbe, and myself. We left by the 7.40 
train and had carriages to meet us at Cagnes. These 
took us as far as the grand Sinai-like granite peaks 


of S. Janet, and thence we walked. The whole terrace 
is most grand for seven miles above the tremendous 
purple gorge of the Var, overhung here and there by 
splendid Aleppo pines or old gnarled oaks ; and as 
we reached just the finest point of all, where the huge 

1 From " South-Eastern France.' 
VOL. Ill, 


castle of Carrozza stands out on a great granite crag, 
the mist curtain drew up and displayed range on range 
of snow mountains, many of them close by really a 
finer scene than any single view I remembered in 
Switzerland. The whole of our party, hitherto inclined 
to grumble, were almost petrified by the intensity of 
the splendour. 

" M. Victor Cousin's sudden death at dinner has 
been a great shock to the Cannes world. It was just 
at that time that our attention was so sadly occu- 
pied by the illness and death of dear old Sir Adam 
Hay. The Hays gave a picnic at Vallauris, to which 
I was invited, and Sir Adam caught a cold there, 
which excited no attention at the time, as he had never 
been ill in his life before. Four days afterwards Addie 
Hay took Miss Hawker and me in their carriage to 
Napoule, where we spent a pleasant day in drawing. 
When we came back, his father was most alarmingly ill, 
and absent children had been already telegraphed for. 
All that week I went constantly to Villa Escarras, and 
shared with the family their alternations of hope and 
fear, but at the end of a week dear Sir Adam died, and 
all the family went away immediately, as he was to be 
buried at Peebles." 

During the latter part of our stay at 
Cannes, the society of Madame Goldschmidt 
(Jenny Lind) was a great pleasure to my 
mother, and in her great kindness she came 
often to sing to her. We went with the 
Goldschmidts to Antibes one most glorious 


February day, when Madame G. was quite 
glowing with delight in all the beauties around 
and gratitude to their Giver. "Oh, how good 
we ought to be how good with all this before 
our eyes ! it is a country to die in." She spoke 
much of the sweetness of the Southern char- 
acter, which she believed to be partly due to 


the climate and scenery. She talked of an old 
man, bowed with rheumatism, who worked in 
her garden. That morning she had asked 
him, " Comment <;a va t'il ? Comment va votre 
sante?"--"Oh, la volonte de Dieu ! " he had 
replied "la volonte de Dieu!" In his pretty 
Provencal his very murmur was a thanksgiving 
for what God sent. She spoke of the dislike 

1 From " South-Eastern France." 


English had to foreigners, but that the only 
point in which she envied the English was 
their noble women. In Sweden she said they 
might become as noble, but that hitherto the 
character of Swedish women had been op- 
pressed by the bondage in which they were 
kept by the laws that they had always been 
kept under guardians, and could have neither 
will nor property of their own, unless they 
married, even when they were eighty. She 
said that she was the first Swedish woman 
who had gained her liberty, and that she had 
obtained it by applying direct to the king, 
who emancipated her because of all she had 
done for Sweden. Now the law was changed, 
and women were emancipated when they were 

Then Madame Goldschmidt talked of the 
faithfulness of the Southern vegetation. In 
England she said to the leaves, "Oh, you poor 
leaves ! you are so thin and miserable. However, 
it does not signify, for you have only to last 
three or four months ; but these beautiful thick 
foreign leaves, with them it is quite different, 
for they have got to be beautiful always." 

We drove up the road leading to the light- 
house, and then walked up the steep rocky 
path carrying two baskets of luncheon, which 


we ate under the shadow of a wall looking 
down upon the glorious view. Madame Gold- 
schmidt had been very anxious all the way 
about preserving a cream-tart which she had 
brought. " Voila le grand moment," she ex- 
claimed as it was uncovered. When some one 
spoke of her enthusiasm, she said, " Oh, it is 
delightful to soar, but one is soon brought back 
again to the cheese and bread and butter of 
life." When Lady Suffolk asked how she first 
knew she had a voice, she said, " Oh, it did 
fly into me ! " 

At first sight Madame Goldschmidt might 
be called "plain," though her smile is most 
beautiful and quite illuminates her features ; 
but how true of her is an observation I met 
with in a book by the Abb6 Monnin, " Le 
sourire ne se raconte pas." " She has no 
face; it is all countenance" might be said of 
her, as Miss Edgeworth said of Lady Wel- 

It was already excessively hot before we 
left Cannes on the 29th of April. After another 
day at the grand ruins of Montmajour near 
Aries, we diverged from Lyons to Le Puy, a 
place too little known and most extraordinary, 
with its grand and fantastic rocks of basalt 
crowned by the most picturesque of buildings. 


[l86 7 

Five days were happily spent in drawing at 
Le Puy and Espailly, and in an excursion to 
the charming neighbouring campagne of the 
old landlord and landlady of the hotel where 
we were staying. Then my mother assented 


to my wish of taking a carriage through the 
forests of Velay and Auvergne to the grand 
desolate monastery of the Chaise Dieu, where 
many of the Popes lived during their exile in 
France, and where Clement VI. lies aloft on 

1 From "South-Eastern France." 

[86 7 ] 


a grand tomb in the centre of the superb choir, 
which is so picturesquely hung with old tapes- 
tries. Our rooms at the hotel here cost half 

ROY AT. 1 

a franc apiece. Joining the railway again at 
Brioude, we went to the Baths of Royat, then 
a very primitive and always a very lovely 

1 From "South-Eastern France.' 


place, with its torrent tumbling through the 
walnut woods, its gorge closed by a grand old 
Templars' church, and its view over rich up- 
land vineyards to the town and cathedral 
of Clermont. On the way home we visited 
the great deserted abbey of Souvigny near 
Moulins, and bought the beautiful broken 
statuette which is one of the principal orna- 
ments of Holmhurst. 

In June I went to Oxford to stay with my 
friend Henry Hood, and was charmed to make 
acquaintance with a young Oxford so different 
from the young Oxford of my days, that it 
seemed altogether another race so much more 
cordial and amusing, though certainly very 
Bohemian. During this visit I cemented an 
acquaintance with Claude Delaval Cobham, 
then reading for the orders for which he soon 
felt himself unsuited. In some respects, he is 
one of the cleverest men I have met, especially 
from his unusual linguistic acquirements, com- 
bined with extreme correctness. I have fre- 
quently received kindness from him since and 
valuable advice and help in literary work, and 
though I have sometimes conceitedly rebelled 
against his opinion at the time, I have never 
failed to find that he was in the right. 



" Oxford, June I, 1867. We went this morning 
in two pony-carriages to Cuddesden, where Claude 
Cobham now is, and spent the afternoon in walk- 
ing and sitting in the Bishop's shady and weedy 

"The other day, coming out of this garden, the 
Bishop heard two navvies on the other side of the 
road talking. ' I zay, Bill, ain't yon a Beeshop ? ' said 
one. 'Yees,' said Bill. 'Then oi'll have some fun 
oot o' him.' So he crossed the road and said, ' I zay, 
zur, be you a Beeshop ? ' ' Yes, at your service/ 
said the Bishop. ' Then can you tell us which is the 
way to heaven?' ' Certainly,' said the Bishop, not 
the least discomposed; 'turn to the right and go 
straight on.' " 

"June 3. I enjoy being at Oxford most intensely, 
and Hood is kindness itself. A wet day cleared into 
a lovely evening for the boat-race, which was a beauti- 
ful sight, the green of the water-meadows in such rich 
fulness, and the crowd upon the barges and walks 
so bright and gay." 

"6 Bury Street, June 12. The first persons I met 
in London were Arthur and Augusta Stanley, who took 
me into their carriage, and with them to the Park, 
whence we walked through Kensington Gardens, and 
very pretty they looked. Arthur described his first 
sight of the Queen on that spot, and Augusta was full 
of Princess Mary's cleverness in being confined in the 


same house on the same day on which the Queen 
was born. 

"Then I went to Lady Wenlock, a most charming 
visit to that sweet old lady, now much feebler, but 
so animated and lively, and her life one long thanks- 
giving that her paralysis has left all her powers un- 
impaired. She told me many old stories. I also called 
on Lady Lothian, who is greatly disturbed at Madame 
de Trafford's power over my sister. She says she quite 
considers her ' possessed/ and that she ought to be 
exorcised. To-day I dined with Lady Grey. She told 
me that as Charlie Grey was crossing to America, his 
fellow-passengers were frightfully sea-sick, especially 
a man opposite. At last an American sitting by him 
said, ' I guess, stranger, if that man goes on much 
longer, he'll bring up his boots.'" 

"June 15. I have been sitting long with Lady 
Eastlake. She spoke of how the great grief of her 
widowhood had taught her to sift the dross from 
letters of condolence. She says that she lives upon 
hope; prayer is given her in the meanwhile as a 
sustenance, not a cure, for if it were a cure, one 
might be tempted to leave off praying : still ' one 
could not live without it; it is like port wine to a 
sick man.' 

"She says she finds a great support in the letters 
of Sir Charles to his mother his most precious gift 
to her. She said touchingly how she knew that even 
to her he had a slight reserve, but that to his mother 
he poured out his whole soul. In those letters she had 
learnt how, when he was absent, his mother hungered 


after him, and perhaps, in all those blessed years when 
she had him, his mother was hungering after him. In 
giving him up, she felt she gave him up to her : he was 
with her now, and from those letters she knew what their 
communion must be. ' I know he is with her now, 
for " I have seen my mother, I have seen my mother," 
he twice rapturously exclaimed when he was dying.' 
How touching and how consoling are those visions 
on this side of the portal. Old Mr. Harford, when 
he was dying, continually asked his wife if she did not 
hear the music. 'Oh, it is so wonderful,' he said, 
1 bands upon bands.' She did not understand it then 
but she knows now. 

" ' It was beautifully ordered,' said Lady Eastlake, 
' that my " History of Our Lord " was finished first : 
I could not have done it now. And through it I learnt 
to know his library. My darling was like a boy 
jumping up and down to find the references I wanted, 
and, if possible, through the book I learnt to know 
him better.' 

" She spoke of his wonderful diligence. When he 
was a boy he wrote to his mother, ' London will be illu- 
minated to-morrow, I shall draw all night.'" 

In July I spent a few days with the Alfords 
at the Deanery of Canterbury, which was 
always most enjoyable, the Dean so brimming 
with liveliness and information of every kind. 
In the delightful garden grows the old historic 
mulberry-tree, 1 about which it used to be said 

1 See vol. i. p. 359. 



[I86 7 

that the Deans of Canterbury sit under the 
mulberry till they turn purple, because those 
Deans were so frequently elevated to the 
episcopal bench, and bishops formerly, though 
it is rare now, always wore purple coats. I 


dined out with the Dean several times. I re- 
member at one of the parties a son of Canon 
Blakesley saying to me what I have often 
thought of since " I find much the best way of 

1 From " Biographical Essays." 


getting on in society is never to be able to under- 
stand why anybody is to be disapproved of." 
Both the Dean's daughters were married now, 
and he cordially welcomed my companionship, 
always treating me as an intimate friend or 
relation. No one could be more sympathetic, 
for he had always the rare power of condemn- 
ing the fault, but not the action of it. 1 I insert 
a few snatches from his table-talk, though they 
give but a faint idea of the man. 

"We have been studying Butler's Analogy evei 
since we came back from Rome, for we've had eight 
different butlers in the time. The last butler said 
to me, ' It's not you who govern the Deanery, and 
it's not Mrs. Alford, but it is the upper house- 
maid.' " 

" Archbishop Harcourt was very fond of hunting, 
so fond that he was very near refusing the arch- 
bishopric because he thought if he accepted he should 
have to give it up. He consulted a friend, who said 
that he must take counsel with others. ' Of course I 
should never join the meet,' said the Archbishop, 
' but you know I might fall in with the hounds by 
accident.' After some time the friend came back and 
said that on the whole the party considered that 
the Archbishop might hunt, provided he did not 

" Archbishop Manners Button had a wonderfully 

1 See Shakespeare, " Measure for Measure." 


ready wit. One day a blustering vulgar man came up 
to him and said, ' I believe, Archbishop, that I am a 
relation of yours : my name is Sutton.' The Arch- 
bishop quietly replied, 'Yes, but you want the 

" When some one was abusing our font the other 
day, I could not help saying that, for a font, I thought 
renaissance peculiarly appropriate." 

" I met Lady Mounteagle the other day : you know 
she was the sister 

* Of the woman tawny and tough 1 
Who married the Master rude and rough 

Who lived in the house that Hope built.' 

You know Hope gothicised the Master's Lodge at 
Trinity. At the Whewells' ' perpendiculars/ as their 
large parties were called, no one was allowed to sit 
down : if any one ventured to do so, a servant came 
and requested him to move on." 

" When Alice was a little girl, I was explaining the 
Apostles' Creed to her. When we came to the point 
of our Saviour descending into hell she said, 'Oh, 
that is where the devil is, isn't it ? ' ' Yes.' ' Then 
why didn't the devil run at him and tear him all to 
pieces ? ' " 

In August we spent some time at the Deanery 
of Westminster, where Arthur and Augusta 
Stanley were always hospitality itself, and, 
with more than the usual kindness of hosts, 

1 Mrs. Whewell. 



[I86 7 

rooms which were arranged for the Sultan, which are 
dull and handsome. The chief fact I derived from 
the housekeeper was that the Sultan never ' goes to 


bed ' and never lies down in fact, he cannot, for a third 
of the imperial bed at either end is taken up by a huge 
bolster, in the middle of which he sits all night, and 


reclines either way in turn. There was a picture of 
the late Sultan in the room, and of Frederick, Prince 
of Wales, sent from Windsor for the occasion. One 
room was entirely hung with portraits of French kings 
and their families." 

From London I went to visit Bishop Jeune, 1 
who was most wonderfully kind to me, really 
giving up his whole time to me whilst I was 
with him, and pouring forth such stores of 
information as I had not received since the 
days of Dr. Hawtrey ; and it was a great 
pleasure to feel, to be quite sure which one 
so seldom is that he liked my visit as much 
as I liked being with him. 

From my JOURNAL. 

"August 10, 1867. On the 8th I went to Peter- 
borough, where I have had a most agreeable visit at 
the Palace. When I arrived at half-past seven, the 
family were all gone to dine with Dr. James, an old 
Canon in the Close, whither I followed them. He was 
a charming old-fashioned gentleman, most delightful 
to see. 

" In the morning the Bishop, wearing his surplice and 
hood, read prayers at a desk in the crypted hall of 
the Palace. Afterwards we walked in the garden. I 
spoke of there being no monument in the Cathedral 
to Catherine of Arragon. 'It is owing to that very 

1 See vol. ii. p. 6. 

1 62 THE STORY OF MY LIFE [1867 

circumstance/ said the Bishop, 'that you are here 
to-day. If Catherine of Arragon had had a tomb, I 
should never have been Bishop of Peterborough. 
When people reproached Henry VIII. with having 
erected no monument to his first wife, he said, " The 
Abbey of Peterborough shall be a cathedral to her 
monument," and he instituted the bishopric ; the last 
abbot was the first bishop.' As we passed the lavatory 
of the old convent, the Bishop said that a touching 
description was still extant of its dedication and of the 
number of cardinals, bishops, and priests who were 
present. ' How few of them,' he said, ' would have 
believed that not only their buildings, which they 
believed would last for ever, could become an indefinite 
ruin, but that their Church, whose foundations they 
believed to be even more eternally rooted in the soil, 
should be cast out to make way for another Church, 
which is already tottering on its base and divided 
against itself.' He said he ' firmly believed that the 
ends both of the Church and monarchy were close at 
hand, that the power of government was even now in 
the hands of a few individuals, who were in their turn 
in the hands of a few Irish priests.' 

" While passing through the garden in returning 
to the Palace, the Bishop showed me a white fig-tree 
growing out of the old wall of the refectory and 
abundantly bearing fruit. 'This,' he said, 'I believe 
to be the white fig-tree which is nearest to the Pole.' 
Passing a fine mulberry-tree he said, ' We owe that to 
James I., as he was so excessively anxious to promote 
the manufacture of silk, that he recommended to every 
one the cultivation of the mulberry-tree, but especially 



to the clergy, and those of the clergy planted it who 
wished to stand well with him. Therefore it is to be 
found in the neighbourhood of many of our cathedrals.' 
"Afterwards the Bishop showed the old chronicle 
of the Abbey, which he had had splendidly restored at 
Oxford. He read me some Latin verses which had 


evidently been inserted by one of the monks descrip- 
tive of his amours. t Yet/ said the Bishop, ' these sins 
of the monk were probably only sins of the imagina- 
tion, quite as vivid as real ones. You know,' he added, 
' there are far more acted than enacted sins, and the 
former are really far the more corrupting of the two.' 


"In the afternoon we drove to Croyland. The 
Bishop talked the whole way. I spoke of his pat- 
ronage, and envied the power it gave him ; he bitterly 
lamented it. He said, ' I have in my gift three canon- 
ries, two archdeaconries, and sixty livings, and if any 
of these fell vacant to-morrow, I should be at my wit's 
end whom to appoint. On the average, two livings 
fall vacant every year, and then comes my time of 
trouble. A bishop who would appoint the best man 
would be most unpopular in his diocese, for every one 
of his clergy would be offended at not being considered 
the best.' With regard to the canonries, I suggested 
that he could find no difficulty, as he might always 
choose men who were employed in some great literary 
work. The Bishop allowed that this was exactly what 
he desired, but that no such men were to be found in 
his diocese. There were many very respectable clergy, 
but none more especially distinguished than the rest. 
He said that when he was appointed bishop, Dr. 
Vaughan advised him never to become what he called 
'a carpet-bag bishop,' but that this, in fact, was just 
what he had become : that when he was going to preach 
in a village and sleep in a clergyman's house, he did 
not like to trouble them by taking a man-servant, and 
that he often arrived carrying his own carpet-bag. 
That consequently he often never had his clothes 
brushed, or even his boots blacked, but that he brushed 
his boots with his clothes-brush as well as he could, 
as he was afraid of ringing his bell for fear of morti- 
fying his hosts by showing that he had not already 
got all that he wanted. He said, however, that the 
work of a bishop was vastly overrated, that there was 


nothing which did not come within the easy powers of 
one man, yet that a proposition had already been made 
to exclude the bishops from the House of Lords, to 
reduce their incomes to 1500, and to double their 
number. He said that he believed all Conservatives 
had better at once emigrate to New Zealand, and that 
he wondered the Queen did not invest in foreign funds ; 
that it was utterly impossible the monarchy could last 
much longer ; that the end would be hastened by the 
debts of the two Princes. 

" When we reached Croyland we went into the Abbey 
Church, where the Bishop pointed out the baptistery 
used for immersion, and several curious epitaphs, one 
as late as 1729 asking prayers for the dead. The 
drive was most curious over the fens, which are now 
drained, but of which the soil is so light that they are 
obliged to marl it all over to prevent its being blown 
away. The abbey itself is most picturesque. It was 
built by St. Guthlac, a courtier, who retired hither in 
a boat, but who came from no desire of seclusion 
and prayer, but merely because he longed for the cele- 
brity which must accrue to him as a hermit. His 
sister, Pega, became the foundress of Peakirk. The 
Bishop spoke much of the sublimity of the concep- 
tion under which these great abbeys were founded 
' One God, one Pope as God's interpreter, one Church, 
the servant of that Pope, unity in everything.' He 
spoke of the Jesuit influence as used to combat that 
of the Gallican Church, and he said that there were 
now only three Gallican bishops. 

" Coming home, the Bishop talked about Wales, and 
asked if I had ever compared the military tactics of the 


Romans with regard to Wales with those of Edward I. 
'The Romans/ he said, ' built the castle of Lincoln for 
the repression of the savage people of the fens, and 
with the same idea built a line of fortresses between 
England and Wales for the repression of the Welsh ; but 
the consummate skill of Edward I. saw a better plan 
than this, and he built a line of fortresses along the 
coast, which could be provisioned from the sea, so that 
if the Welsh made a raid into England, he could bring 
them back by falling upon their wives and children. 

" In the evening the Bishop read aloud French poetry, 
a ballad of the early part of the seventeenth century, on 
which Goldsmith had evidently founded his ' Madame 
Blaise/ the powerful ' Malbrook,' and many old hymns ; 
also a beautiful hymn of Adolph Monod on the Passion 
of Christ, which he said showed too much philosophy. 
He described how he had preached in Westminster 
Abbey in French during the great Exhibition, and the 
immense power of declamation that French gave ; that 
he had apostrophised those lying in the tombs, the 
dead kings round about him, as he never should have 
ventured to do in English. He spoke of the transitions 
of his life, that his childhood had been passed amongst 
the rocks of Guernsey, and that he had loved rocks 
and wild rolling seas ever since. That as a child he 
was never allowed to speak French, as only the lower 
orders spoke it, but that he went to the French college 
of S. Servan, and there he learnt it. Then came his 
Oxford life, after which, thinking that he was never 
likely to have any opening for making his way in 
England, he went off to Canada in despair, intending to 
become a settler in the backwoods. The rough life, 


however, soon disgusted him, and in a year he returned 
to England, where he became fellow and tutor of his 
college. Thence he was appointed Dean of Jersey, 
and ruled there over the petty community. Then he 
was made Master of Pembroke (where he remained 
twenty years), Vice-Chancellor, Dean of Lincoln, and 
Bishop of Peterborough. He spoke of the honour of 
Oxford men and the consistency of the Hebdomadal 
Board, compared with others he had to deal with. 
In Jersey, as a matter of course, all his subordinates 
voted with their Dean. When he came to Oxford he 
expected the same subserviency, and looked on all his 
colleagues with suspicion, but he was soon convinced 
of their uprightness. He said touchingly that, when 
near the grave, on looking back, it all seemed much the 
same the same pettiness of feeling, the same party 
strife, only he did not worry himself about it; they 
were all in the hands of One who died for all alike ; 
that now there were changes in everything only One 
was unchanged. 

" Speaking of the morality of Italy, he said that his 
friend Mr. Hamilton, head of a clan, had met ' Sandy,' 
one of his men, travelling between Rome and Naples. 
After expressing his surprise at seeing him there, he 
asked what he thought of Rome and Naples. ' Wai,' 
said Sandy, ' I jist think that if naething happens to 
Rome and Naples, Sodom and Gomorrah were very 
unjustly dealt with.' 

" ' I met Gioberti in Italy,' said the Bishop, ' and 
asked him about the Pope. "C'est une femme ver- 
tueuse," he replied, "mais c'est toujours une femme.'" 

"The Bishop said that, when younger, he wished 


to have written a series of Bampton Lectures (and 
began them) on the History of the Sacrament of the 
Lord's Supper. He intended to begin with a description 
of three scenes first, the supper in the upper chamber 
at Jerusalem; then the Pope officiating at the altar 
of the Lateran ; then a simple Scotch meeting in the 
Highlands and he would proceed to describe what 
had led to the differences between these; how the 
Agape was arranged as a point at which all divisions 
and dissensions should be laid aside ; how it was set 
aside after sixty years by the Roman Emperor ; then 
of the gradual growth of the Eucharist, till oaths were 
taken on the wafer, and deeds were sealed with it to 
give them a solemnity ; and till, finally, it came to be 
regarded as the actual body of Christ ; then of the 
gradual rise of all the different theories, the impanation, 
the invination of the Saviour. 

"This morning the Bishop asked if I knew what 
was the difference between the entrance of a field 
in France and England. ' In England,' he said, ' it 
is a gate to let people in ; in France a barrUre to keep 
people out : from this you might proceed to theorise 
that England was a country where sheep might stray, 
but France not : England a country for milk and flesh, 
France for corn and wine.' 

" The Bishop said he knew our Roman acquaintance 
Mr. Goldsmid well. ' I met Nat Goldsmid in Paris 
about the time of the Immaculate Conception affair, 
and I said to him, " Goldsmid, now why has your 
Church done this ? for you know you all worshipped 
the Virgin as much as you could before, and what 
more can you do for her now ? " " Yes," he said, 


" that is quite true ; we all worshipped the Virgin 
before, but we have done this as a stepping-stone to 
declaring the infallibility of the Pope. A Pope who 
could take upon himself to declare such a dogma as 
this must be infallible ! " 

From Peterborough I went to stay at Lin- 
coln with Mrs. Nicholas Bacon, mother of the 
premier baronet, a very pretty old lady, who 
reminded me of the old lady in " David Copper- 
field," finding her chief occupation in rapping 
at her window and keeping the Minster green 
opposite free from intruding children, and unable 
to leave home for any time because then they 
would get beyond her "so sacrilegious," she 
told them, it was to play there. Going with 
her to dine with that Mrs. Ellison of Sugbrooke 
who has bequeathed a fine collection of pictures 
to the nation, I met the very oldest party of 
people I ever saw in my life, and as one octo- 
genarian tottered in after another, felt more 
amazed, till Mrs. Ellison laughingly explained 
that, as Mrs. Bacon had written that she was 
going to bring "a very old friend" of hers, she 
had supposed it would be agreeable to him to 
meet as many as possible of his contemporaries ! 
Afterwards, when staying with Mr. Clements 
at Gainsborough, I saw Stowe, which, as an old 
cathedral, was the predecessor of Lincoln very 


curious and interesting. Thence I went to 
Doncaster, arriving in time to help Kate 1 with 
a great tea-party to her old women. She asked 
one old woman how she was. " Well," she said, 
" I be middling upivards, but I be very bad 
downwards. I be troubled with such bad legs ; 
downright dangerous legs they be." After 
visits at Durham, Cullercoats, and Ridley Hall, 
I went to stay with the Dixon-Brownes at 
Unthank in Northumberland. 


" Unthank, August 27, 1867. I spent yesterday 
morning in my Northern home (at Ridley), which is 
in perfect beauty now the Allen water, full and clear, 
rushing in tiny waterfalls among the mossy rocks, 
all the ferns in full luxuriance, and the rich heather 
in bloom, hanging over the crags and edging the 
walks. At six o'clock the flag was raised which stops 
all trains at the bottom of the garden, and I came the 
wee journey of seven miles down the lovely Tyne 
valley to Haltwhistle. Unthank is the old home of 
Bishop Ridley, the house to which he wrote his last 
letter before the stake, addressed to 'my deare sister 
of Unthanke,' and it is a beautiful spot in a green 
hollow, close under the purple slopes of the grand moor 
called Plenmellor. The house is modern, but has an 
old tower, and a garden splendid in gorgeous colouring 
sweeps up the hill behind it. To-day we went up 

1 Mrs. C. Vaughan. Dr. Vaughan was now Vicar of Doncaster. 


through a romantic gill called 'The Heavenly Hole* 
to Plenmellor Tarn, a lovely blue lake in the midst 
of the heather-clad hills. We spoke of it to an old 
man there, ' Aye/ he said, 'it's jist a drap of water left 
by the Fluid, and niver dried up."' 

" Bonnyrigg, August 30. This shooting lodge of Sir 
Edward Blackett is quite in the uninhabited moor- 
lands, but has lovely views of a lake backed by 
cra ggy blue hills just what my sweet mother would 
delight to sketch. Lady Blackett is very clever 
and agreeable. 1 We have been a fatiguing walk 
through the heather to 'the Queen's Crag/ supposed 
to be Guinevere turned into stone." 

" Bamborough Castle, Sept. 7. I always long especi- 
ally for my dearest mother in this grand old castle, to 
me perhaps the most delightful place in the world, its 
wild scenery more congenial than even beautiful Italy 
itself. Nothing too can be kinder than the dear old 
cousins. 2 ... It was almost dark when we drove up 
the links and under all the old gateways and through 
the rock entrance : the light burning in Mrs. Liddell's 
recess in the court-room. And it was pleasant to 
emerge from the damp into the brightly lighted tapes- 
tried chamber with the dinner set out. All yesterday 
the minute-gun was booming through the fog to warn 
ships off the rocks such a strangely solemn sound. 

" Mr. Liddell was speaking to an old Northumbrian 

1 Frances Vere, 2nd wife of Sir Edward Blackett of Matfen, and 
daughter of Sir William Lorraine. 

2 Rev. Henry and Mrs. Liddell of Easington. 


here about the organ yesterday, and he said, ' I canna 
bear the loike o' that kist o' whistles a buzzin' in my 

" The Lodge, North Berwick, Sept. 9. I find my 
sweet hostess, Mrs. Dalzel, 1 little altered, except per- 
haps more entirely heavenly than before in all her 
thoughts and words. ' I am very near the last station 
now/ she says, ' and then I shall be at home. I am 
the last of fifteen, and I can think of them all there 
my mother, my sisters, one after another, resting upon 
their Saviour alone, and now with Him for ever ! ' 
f When one is old, the wonderful discoveries, the great 
works of man only bewilder one and tire one ; but the 
flowers and the unfolding of Nature, all the wonderful 
works of God, refresh and interest as much as ever : 
and may not it be because these interests and pleasures 
are to be immortal, amid the flowers that never fade ? ' 

" Mr. Dalzel does not look a day older, but he sat 
at dinner with a green baize cloth before him to save his 
eyes. We dined at five, and another Mrs. Dalzel came, 
who sang Scottish songs most beautifully in the evening. 
Mr. Dalzel prayed aloud long extempore prayers, and we 
dispersed at ten. Before dinner I went to the sands 
with Mrs. Allen Dalzel, 2 who was very amusing : 

" ' The old Dalzel house is at Binns near Linlithgow. 
The first Dalzel was an attendant of one of the early 
Kenneths. The king's favourite was taken by his 
enemies and hanged on a tree. " Who will dare to cut 

1 Nee Aventina Macmurdo. See vol. ii. p. 18. 

2 Daughter-in-law of Mr. and Mrs. Dalzel. Their son, a very dis- 
tinguished young man, died before them. 


him down ? " said the king. " Dalzel," or " I dare," said 
the attendant, who cut him down with his dagger. 
Hence came the name, and hence the Dalzels bear a 
dagger as their crest, with the motto " I dare," and on 
their arms a man hanging. 

" ' At Binns there are trees cut in the shape of men 
hanging. There is also a picture of the " tyrannous 
Dalzel," who persecuted the Covenanters, and who 
made a vow at the death of Charles I. that he would 
never shave again or change his costume. He lived for 
fifty years after that, but he never cut his beard, and 
he is represented in his odd suit of chamois leather, 
with a high-peaked hat and his hair down to his 

" ' His comrade was Grierson of Lag, whose eye was 
the most terrible ever seen. Long after the persecu- 
tion was over, he was told that a servant in the house 
had a great curiosity to see him. " Let him bring me 
a glass of wine," said Grierson. The servant brought 
it in upon a salver. Grierson waited till he came close 
up, and then, fixing his eye on him, exclaimed, " Are 
there ony Whigs in Galloway noo ? " and the effect was 
so terrible, that the servant dropped the salver, glass 
and all, and rushed out of the room. 

" ' I used to go and teach Betty O'Brien to read when 
we lived at Seacliffe. Her mother was a clean tidy 
body, and, though she had not a penny in the world, 
she was very proud, for she came from the North of 
Ireland, and looked down upon all who came from 
the South. I asked her why she did not make friends 
with her neighbours, and she said, " D'ye think I'd 
consort wi' the loike o' them, just Connaught folk?" 


So on this I changed the subject as quick as I could, 
for I just came from Connaught myself. 

" ' Her daughter, however, married one of those very 
Connaught Irish what she called " the boy O'Flinn," 
and she would have nothing to do with her afterwards ; 
and she lay in wait for " the boy O'Flinn," and threw a 
stone at him, which hit him in the chest so badly that 
he was in bed for a week afterwards. When I heard 
of this, I went to see her and said, " Well, Betty, you're 
Irish, and I'm Irish, and I think we just ought to set 
a good example and show how well Irishwomen can 
behave." But she soon cut short my little sermon by 
saying, "They've been telling tales o' me, have they? 
and it's not off you they keep their tongues neither : 
they say you're a Roman / " I did not want to hear 
any more, and was going out of the cottage, when she 
called after me in a fury, "/ know what you've been 
staying so long in Edinburgh for ; you just stay here 
to fast and to pray, and then you go there to faast and 
drink tay." ' 

" Sept. 10. I wish for my dearest mother every 
hour in this sanctuary of peace and loving-kindness, 
with the sweet presence of Mrs. Dalzel. What she 
is and says it is quite impossible to give an idea of; 
but she is truly what Milton describes 

" Insphered 

In regions mild of calm and air serene, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 
Which men call earth." 

Her constant communion with heaven makes all the 


world to her only a gallery of heavenly pictures, 
creating a succession of heavenly thoughts, and she 
has so sweet and gentle a manner of giving these 
thought to others, that all, even those least in unison 
with her, are equally impressed by them. Most striking 
of all is her large-heartedness and admiration of all the 
good people who disagree with her. Her daughter- 
in-law has quite given up everything else in her 
devotion to her: it is really Ruth and Naomi over 

"This afternoon we drove to Tantallon and on to 
Seacliffe, a most beautiful place on the coast, where 
Mrs. Dalzel lived formerly. A delightful little walk 
under a ruined manor-house and through a wood of 
old buckthorn trees led down to the sea, and a most 
grand view of Tantallon rising on its red rocks. We 
walked afterwards to ' Canty Bay,' so called because 
the Covenanters sang Psalms there when they were 
being embarked for the Bass. 

" ' How curious it would be,' Mrs. Dalzel has been 
saying, ' if all the lines on people's faces had writing 
on them to say what brought them there. What strange 
tales they would tell ! ' 

" ' Oh, what it is to be at peace ! at perfect peace 
with God ! in perfect reliance on one's Saviour ! I 
often think it is like a person who has packed up for 
a journey. When all his work is finished and all 
his boxes are packed, he can sit down in the last 
hour before his departure and rest in peace, for all 
his preparations are made. So in the last hours of 
life one may rest in peace, if the work of preparation 
is already done. 1 


" ' I used to count the future by years : now I 
only do it by months; perhaps I can only do it by 

" ' My eldest brother lived in a great world. He 
was very handsome and much admired. As aide-de- 
camp to Sir Ralph Abercromby, George IV. made 
him his friend, and many people paid court to him. 
At last one day he came to my dear mother, who 
was still living in her great age, and who had found 
her Saviour some years before, and said to her, 
" Mother, I feel that my health is failing and that 
this world is rapidly slipping away from me, and I 
have no certain hope for the next: what would you 
advise me to do ? " And my mother said to him, 
" My dear son, I can only advise you to do what I 
have done myself, take your Bible and read it with 
prayer upon your knees, and God will send you 
light." And my brother did so, and God granted 
him the perfect peace that passeth understanding. 
He lived many years after that, but his health had 
failed, and his Bible was his constant companion. 
When I went to see him, he used to lay his hand 
on the Book and say, " This is my comforter." A 
few years before he died, a malady affected one of 
his legs which obliged him to have the limb ampu- 
tated. When the operation was about to commence, 
the doctor who was standing by felt his pulse, and 
did not find it varied in the least. " General Mac- 
murdo," he said, "you are a hero." "No," said my 
brother solemnly, "but I hope I am a Christian." 
And the doctor said he felt the power of Chris- 
tianity from that day.' 


" ' From the shore of another world all my past life 
seems like a dream.' l 

" I think if one stayed here long, one would quite feel 
the necessity of sinning occasionally to avoid the danger 
of becoming intolerant of petty faults and unsuitable- 
nesses, from living with those so entirely without them." 

" Carstairs, Sept. 18. This is a large and comfort- 
able house, and Mr. Monteith is busied with various 
improvements in the grounds. One improvement I 
should certainly make would be the destruction of a 
horrible tomb of a former possessor of the place, an 
atheist relation, with an inscription 'to the Infernal 
Deities.' No wonder that the avenue leading to the 
tomb is said to be haunted." 

It was during this summer that old Lady 
Webster died. 2 She had long been a con- 
spicuous figure in our home neighbourhood, 
and had seemed to possess the secret of eternal 
youth. In my childhood she reigned like a 
queen at Battle, but the Websters had several 
years before been obliged to sell Battle to 
Lord Harry Vane (afterwards Duke of Cleve- 
land), chiefly because there were five dowager 
Lady Websters at once, all drawing jointures 
from the already impoverished property. Of 
these ladies, three, usually known as "the good 

1 Mrs. Dalzel died in October 1871. 

8 Charlotte, eldest daughter of Robert Adamson, Esq., and widow of 
Sir Godfrey Vassal 1 Webster, Bart. 



Lady Webster," " Grace, Lady Webster," and 
" the great Lady Webster," lived much at 
Hastings. When the great Lady Webster 
died, she left several sons, and it was a subject 
of much comment at the time that, when her 
will was opened, she was found to have left 
nothing to any of them. Her will was very 
short. She left everything she possessed in 
the world to her dear and faithful companion 
Madame Bergeret. It excited many unkind 
remarks, but those who learnt the real facts 
always admitted that, in the crowning act of 
her life, Lady Webster had only acted with 
that sense of justice and duty which had ever 
been her characteristic. The story is this : l 

Towards the latter part of the last century there 
lived at an old manorial farm in Brittany a female farmer 
named Bergeret. Her ancestors had owned the farm, 
and had cultivated their own land for hundreds of years, 
and Madame Bergeret herself was well known and 
highly respected through all the neighbouring country, 
charitable to her poorer neighbours, frank, kind, and 
unfailingly hospitable to those in her own rank of life. 
She lived bounteously, kept an open house, and spent 
in beneficence and hospitality the ample income which 
her lands brought her. 

1 As taken down from the narration of old Mr. Frewen of Brick- 
wall, an intimate friend of the Webster family, who generously bought 
in all their family portraits at the time of their ruin, and kept them 
till they had the power of redeeming them. 


One day she was surprised by a visit from her 
next neighbour, a man named Girard, in her own class 
of life, whose family had always been known to her 
own, and who had possessed the neighbouring farm. 
He told her that he felt she would be shocked to 
hear that he had long been acting a part in making 
himself appear much better off than he was ; that he 
had lost a great deal of money in speculation ; that all 
was on the eve of being divulged ; that if he could 
manage to keeps things going till after the next harvest, 
he might tide over his misfortunes, but that otherwise he 
must be totally ruined, lose everything he had, and bring 
his wife and children to destitution ; and by the re- 
collection of their old neighbourhood and long intimacy 
he adjured Madame Bergeret to help him. Madame 
Bergeret was very sorry very sorry indeed, but she 
told him that it was impossible ; and it really was. She 
lived amply up to her income, she had laid nothing by : 
she was well off, but all she had came from her lands ; 
her income depended upon her harvest ; she really had 
nothing to give to her poor neighbour, and she told 
him so told him so with a very heavy heart, and he 
went away terribly crestfallen and miserable. 

When Girard was gone, Madame Bergeret looked 
round her room, and she saw there a collection of fine 
old gold plate, such as often forms the source of pride 
to a Breton yeoman of old family, and descends like 
a patent of nobility from one generation to another, 
greatly reverenced and guarded. Madame Bergeret 
looked at her plate, and she said to herself, " If this 
was sold, it would produce a very large sum; and 
ought I, for the sake of mere family pride, to allow an old 


and honourable family to go to destitution ? " And she 
called her neighbour back, and she gave Girard all her 
gold plate. The sum for which he was able to sell it 
helped him through till after the harvest ; soon after- 
wards he found an opportunity of disposing of his 
Breton lands to very great advantage, and removed 
to another part of the country. He thanked Madame 
Bergeret, but he did not seem to realise that she had 
made any great sacrifice in his behalf; and she, resting 
satisfied in having done what she believed to be right, 
expected no more. 

Some years afterwards, Madame Bergeret, being 
an old woman, placed her Breton lands in the hands 
of an agent, and removed with her two children to 
Paris. The great French Revolution occurred while 
she was there, and the Reign of Terror came on, and 
Madame Bergeret, who belonged to a Royalist family 
of loyal Brittany, was arrested : she was thrown into 
the prison of La Force, and she was condemned to 

The Madame Bergeret I knew in another genera- 
tion recollected being with her little brother in a 
room on the Rue St. Honore on the day on which a 
hundred and twenty persons were to suffer in the 
Place Louis XV. She saw them pass down the street 
to execution in twenty-two tumbrils; but when the 
last tumbril came beneath the window, the friends 
who were with her in the room drew down the blinds ; 
not, however, before she had recognised her own 
mother in that tumbril, with all her hair cut off, that 
the head might come off more easily. 

All the way to the place of execution, Madame 


Bergeret consoled and encouraged her companions, 
and she assented to their petition that she should suffer 
last, that she would see them through the dread portal 
before her. Therefore, when her turn at length came, 
the ground around the scaffold was one sea of blood, for 
a hundred and nineteen persons had perished that day. 
Thus, on descending the steps of the cart, Madame 
Bergeret slipped and stumbled. This arrested the 
attention of the deputy who was set to watch the 
executions. He started, and then rushed forward 
saying, "This woman has no business here. I know 
her very well ; she is a most honest citoyenne, or, if 
she is not, I know quite well how to make her so : this 
woman is not one to be guillotined." It was Girard. 

Now Madame Bergeret was quite prepared for death, 
but the sudden revulsion of her deliverance over- 
came her and she fainted. Girard carried her away 
in his arms, and when she came to herself she was 
in bed in a house in a quiet back-street of Paris, and 
he was watching over her. He had removed to Lyons, 
and, with the sudden changes of the time, had risen 
to be deputy, and being set to watch the executions, 
had recognised the woman who had saved him. By 
the help of Girard, and after many hairbreadth escapes, 
Madame Bergeret reached the coast, and eventually 
arrived in England. She then made her way to the only 
person she knew, a lady who had once spent some time 
in her Breton village, a Mrs. Adamson. Her daughter 
played with and was brought up with the little Miss 
Adamson. When Miss Adamson married Sir God- 
frey Webster of Battle Abbey, Mademoiselle Bergeret 
(her mother being dead) went with her and lived at 


Battle as a sort of companion to Lady Webster and 
nursery-governess to her boys. For fifty years she 
never received any salary, and having, through the 
changes of things in France, inherited something of 
her mother's Breton property, she twice sacrificed 
her little all to pay the debts of the Webster family. 
Therefore it was that, in the close of life, Lady Webster 
felt that her sons might provide for themselves, but 
that, having very little to bequeath, the one person she 
could not leave destitute was " her dear and faithful 
companion and friend, Madame Bergeret." 

Five months before her death, Lady Webster was 
very full of the terrible deaths which had lately oc- 
curred from railway accidents, and, on leaving home, 
she said to Madame Bergeret, " Here is this paper, 
and if I should be killed by an accident or not live to 
come home, you may read it ; but at any rate keep it 
for me, and perhaps, if I come back, some day I may 
want it again." Lady Webster came back well and 
did not ask for the paper, and when she died, it was 
so sudden, a few minutes after talking quite cheerfully 
to Madame Bergeret, that in the shock she remembered 
nothing about it, and it was only long afterwards, when 
they were making a great fuss about there being no 
will, that she suddenly thought of the paper entrusted 
to her, and, when it was read, found Lady Webster 
had left her all she possessed. 

Madame Bergeret dying herself about a year after- 
wards, left everything back to the Webster family. 
She was a quiet primitive old woman, who used to 
sit in the background at work in Lady Webster's 


After my return home in the autumn of 1867, 
my mother was terribly ill, so that our journey 
abroad was a very anxious one to look forward 
to. I tried, however, to face it quite cheerily. 
I have read in an American novel somewhere, 
"It is no use to pack up any worries to take 
with you; you can always pick up plenty on 
the way ; " and I have always found it true. 


" Nice, Nov. 17, 1867. My dear Aunt Sophy will be 
delighted to see this date. So far all our troubles and 
anxieties are past, and the sweet Mother certainly not 
the worse, perhaps rather better for all her fatigues. 
It is an extraordinary case, to be one day lying in a 
sort of vision on the portals of another world, the next 
up and travelling. 

" When we reached Paris she was terribly exhausted, 
then slept for thirty-six hours like a child, almost with- 
out wakiSg. At the Embassy we were urged to go on 
to Rome, all quiet and likely to subside into a dead 
calm ; but so much snow had fallen on Mont Cenis, 
that in Mother's weak state we could not risk that 
passage, and were obliged to decide upon coming round 
by the coast. On Monday we reached Dijon, where 
twenty-four hours' sleep again revived the Mother. 
It was fiercely cold, but Tuesday brightened into a 
glorious winter's day, and I had a most enchanting 
walk through sunshine and bracing air to Fontaines. 
It is picturesque French country, a winding road 



[l86 7 

with golden vines and old stone crosses, and a distance 
of oddly-shaped purple hills. Fontaines itself is a 
large village, full of mouldering mediaeval fragments, 
stretching up a hillside, which becomes steeper towards 
the top, and is crowned by a fine old church, a lawn 


with groups of old walnut-trees, and the remains of 
the chateau where St. Bernard was born. Over the 
entrance is a statue of him, and within, the room of 
his birth is preserved as a chapel. The view from 
the churchyard is lovely, and the graves are marked 

1 From " South-Eastern France." 


by ancient stone crosses and bordered with flowers. 
Within are old tombs and inscriptions ' Ce git la tres 
haute et tres puissante dame/ &c. 

" We came on to Aries by the quick night-train, and 
stayed there as usual two days and a half days of 



glaring white sirocco and no colour, and at Aries we 
found ourselves at once in Southern heat, panting, 
without fires and with windows wide open." 

"Pisa, Dec. I. We left Nice on the 2ist, and slept 
at Mentone, quite spoilt by building and by cutting down 

1 From "South-Eastern France." 


trees. I saw many friends, especially the Comtesse 
d'Adhemar, who flung her arms round me and kissed 
me on both cheeks. We spent the middle of the next 
day at S. Remo and slept at Oneglia. The precipices 
are truly appalling. I have visions still of the early 


morning drive from Oneglia along dewy hillsides and 
amongst hoary olives, and through the narrow gaily 
painted streets of the little fishing-towns, where the 
arches meet overhead and the wares set out before 
the shop-doors brush the carriage as it passes by. 
"The second day, at Loiano, I was left behind. I 

1 From "Northern Italy." 


went just outside the hotel to draw, begging my mother 
and Lea to pick me up as they went by. The carriage 
passed close by me and they did not see me. At first 
I did not hurry myself, thinking, when they did not 
find me, that they would stop for me a little farther 
on ; but seeing the carriage go on and on, I ran after 
it as hard as I could, shouting at the pitch of my voice ; 
but it never stopped, and I quite lost sight of it in 
the narrow streets of one of the fishing-villages before 
reaching Finale. At Finale I was in absolute despair 
at their not stopping, which seemed inexplicable, and 
I pursued mile after mile, footsore and weary, through 
the grand mountain coves in that part of the Riviera 
and along the desolate shore to Noli, where, just as 
night closed in, I was taken up by some people driving 
in a little carriage, on the box of which, in a bitter 
cold wind, I was carried to Savona, where I arrived 
just as our heavy carriage with its inmates was driving 
into the hotel. It was one of the odd instances of my 
dear mother's insouciance, of her ' happy-go-lucky ' 
nature : ' they had not seen me, they had not looked 
back ; no, they supposed I should get on somehow ; 
they knew I always fell on my legs.' And I was per- 
fectly conscious that if I had not appeared for days, 
my mother would have said just the same. We spent 
a pleasant Sunday at Savona, the views most beau- 
tiful of the wonderfully picturesque tower, calm bay 
of sapphire water, and delicate mountain distance. 

" The landlord of the Croce di Malta at Genoa en- 
gaged a vetturino to take us to La Spezia. The first 
day, it was late when we left Sta. Margherita, where 
we stayed for luncheon. The driver lighted his lamps 


at Chiavari. Soon both my companions fell asleep. 
I sat up watching the foam of the sea at the bottom of 
the deep black precipices without parapets as long as 
I could see it through the gloom : then it became quite 
dark. Suddenly there was a frightful bolt of the horses, 
scream after scream from the driver, an awful crash, 
and we were hurled violently over and over into the 
black darkness. A succession of shrieks from Lea 
showed me that she was alive, but I thought at first 
my mother must be killed, for there was no sound from 
her. Soon the great troop of'navvies came up, whose 
sudden appearance from the mouth of a tunnel, each 
with a long iron torch in his hand, had made the 
horses bolt. One of them let down his torch into the 
mired and broken carriage as it lay bottom upwards. 
' Povera, poveretta,' he exclaimed, as he saw Lea sit- 
ting pouring with blood amongst the broken glass of 
the five great windows of the carriage. Then Mother's 
voice from the depth of the hood assured us that she 
was not hurt, only buried under the cushions and bags, 
and she had courage to remain perfectly motionless, 
while sheet after sheet of broken glass was taken from 
off her (she would have been cut to pieces if she had 
moved) and thrown out at the top of the carriage. 
Then there was a great consultation as to how we were 
to be got out, which ended in the carriage being bodily 
lifted and part of the top taken off, making an opening 
through which first Lea was dragged and afterwards 
the Mother. Then my mother, who had not walked 
at all for many weeks, was compelled to walk more 
than a mile to Sestri, in pitch darkness and pouring 
rain, dragged by a navvy on one side and me on the 

1 86;] 


8 9 

other. Another navvy supported Lea, who was in a 
fainting state, and others carried torches. We ex- 
cited much pity when we arrived at the little inn at 
Sestri, and the people were most hospitable and kind. 
I had always especially wished to draw a particular 



view of a gaily painted church tower and some grand 
aloes on the road near Sestri, and it was curious to 
be enabled to do so the next day by our forcible de- 
tention there for want of a carriage. 

" On the 2Qth we crossed once more the grand pass 
of Bracco, with its glorious scenery of billowy moun- 
tains ending in the delicate peaks of Carrara ; and we 

i From " Central Italy." 


baited at a wretched village where Mother was able 
to walk in the sunny road. Yesterday we came here 
by the exquisite railway under Massa Ducale, and were 
rapturously welcomed by Victoire 1 and her daughter." 

" Palazzo Parisani, Rome, Dec. 10. We had a 
wearisome journey here on the 3rd, the train not 
attempting to keep any particular time, and stopping 
more than an hour at Orbetello for fehe ' discorso ' of 
the guard and engine-driver, 2 and at other stations in 
proportion. However, Mother quite revived when the 
great masses of the aqueducts began to show in the 
moonlight. They had given up expecting us in the 
Palazzo, where my sister has lent us her apartments, 
and it was long before we could get any one to open 
the door. 

" It has been bitterly cold ever since we arrived and 
the air filled with snow. The first acquaintance I saw 
was the Pope ! He was at the Trinita de' Monte, and 
I waited to see him come down the steps and receive 
his blessing on our first Roman morning. He looked 
dreadfully weak, and Monsignor Talbot seemed to be 
holding him tight up lest he should fall. The Nea- 
politan royal family I have already seen, always in 
their deep mourning. 3 

"The Pincio is still surrounded with earthworks, 
and the barricades remain outside the gates : a great 

1 Mme. Victoire Ackermann. See vol. i. 

2 Such was a constant cause of detention in early days of Italian rail- 
ways, though it seems impossible now. 

2 For the Queen Dowager, who died of the cholera at Albano in the 
summer of 1867. 


open moat yawns in front of the door of the English 
Church. The barrack near St. Peter's is a hideous 
ruin. The accounts of the battle of Mentana are 
awful : when the Pontificals had expended all their 
ammunition, they rushed upon the Garibaldians and 
tore them with their teeth. 

" Terrible misery has been left by the cholera, and 
the streets are far more full of beggars than ever. 
The number of deaths has been frightful Princess 
Colonna and her daughters ; old Marchese Serlupi ; 
Miiller the painter and his child ; Mrs. Foljambe's old 
maid of thirty years; Mrs. Ramsay's donna and the 
man who made tea at her parties, are amongst those 
we have known. The first day we were out, Lea and 
I saw a woman in deep mourning, who was evidently 
begging, look wistfully at us, and had some difficulty 
in recognising Angela, our donna of 1863. Her hus- 
band, handsome Antonio the fisherman, turned black 
of the cholera in the Pescheria, and died in a few 
hours, and her three children have been ill ever 

" Mrs. Shakspeare Wood has been to see us, and 
described the summer which she has spent here six 
thousand deaths in Rome between May and November, 
sixty in the Forum of Trajan, thirty in the Purifi- 
cazione alone. The Government wisely forbade any 
funeral processions, and did not allow the bells to be 
tolled, and the dead were taken away at night. Then 
came the war. The gates were closed, and an edict 
published bidding all the citizens, when they heard 
' cinque colpi di cann6ne, d'andare subito a casa.' 
The Woods laid in quantities of flour, and spent 5 in 


cheese, only remembering afterwards that, having for- 
gotten to lay in any fuel, they could not have baked 
their bread." 

"Dec. 13. Yesterday I went to Mrs. Robert De 
Selby. 1 She described the excitement of the battles. 
In the thick of it all she got a safe-conduct and drove 
out to Mentana to be near her husband in case he was 
wounded. She also drove several times to the army 
with provisions and cordials. If they tried to stop 
her, she said she was an officer's wife taking him his 
dinner, and they let her pass. One of the officers 
said afterwards to her mother, 'La sua figlia vale un 
altro dragone.' 

" She told me Lady Anne S. Giorgio (her mother), 2 
was living in the Mercede, and I went there at once. 
She was overjoyed to see me, and embraced me with 
the utmost affection. She is also enchanted to be near 
the Mother, her ' saint in a Protestant niche.' She is 
come here because ' all the old sinners in Florence ' 
disapproved of her revolutionary tendencies. Lady 
Anne remembered my father's great intimacy with 
Mezzofanti. She said my father had once a servant 
who came from an obscure part of Hungary where 
they spoke a very peculiar dialect. One day, going to 
Mezzofanti, he took his servant with him. The Cardinal 
asked the man where he came from, and, on his telling 
him, addressed him in the dialect of his native place. 
The man screamed violently, and, making for the door, 
tried to escape : he took Mezzofanti for a wizard. 

1 Contessa Carolina di S. Giorgio. 
2 See vol. ii. p. 86. 


" Lady Anne recollected my father's extreme enjoy- 
ment of a scene of this kind. There was a Dr. Taylor 
who used to worship the heathen gods Mars and 
Mercury, and the rest. One day at Oxford, in the 
presence of my father and of one of the professors, he 
took his little silver images of the gods out of his pocket 
and began to pray to them and burn incense. The 
professor, intensely shocked, tried to interfere, but my 
father started up ' How can you be so foolish ? do be 
quiet : don't you see you're interrupting the comedy ? ' 
The same Dr. Taylor was afterwards arrested for 
sacrificing a bullock to Neptune in a back-parlour in 
London ! " 

" 44 Piazza di Spagna, Dec. 29. We moved here on 
the 2Oth to a delightfully comfortable apartment, which 
is a perfect sun-trap. Most truly luxurious indeed 
does Rome seem after Cannes food, house, carriages, 
all so good and reasonable. I actually gave a party 
before we left my sister's apartment, lighting up those 
fine rooms, and issuing the invitations in my own 
name, in order that Mother might not feel obliged to 
appear unless quite equal to it at the moment. Three 
days after I had another party for children tea and 
high romps afterwards in the long drawing-room. 

"On the 2 ist I went with the Erskines, Mrs. 
Ramsay, and Miss Garden, by rail to Monte Rotondo. 
The quantity of soldiers at the station and all along 
the road quite allayed any fears of brigands which 
had been entertained regarding the mile and a half 
between the village and the railway. The situation 
proved quite beautiful the old houses crowned by the 

VOL, in, N 


Piombino castle, rising from vineyards and gardens, 
backed by the purple peak of Monte Gennaro. Beyond, 
in the hollow, is the convent where Garibaldi was en- 
camped, and farther still the battlefield of Mentana. 

" On the 23rd there was a magnificent reception at 
the Spanish Embassy. Every one went to salute the 
new ambassador, Don Alessandro del Castro, and the 
whole immense suite of rooms thrown open had a 
glorious effect. There was an abundance of cardinals, 
and the Roman princesses all arrived in their diamonds. 
The Borgheses came in as a family procession, headed 
by Princess Borghese in blue velvet and diamonds. 
The young English Princess Teano looked lovely in 
blue velvet and gold brocade. On Christmas Day I 
went to St. Peter's for the coming in of the Pope, and 
stayed long enough to see Francis II. arrive with his 
suite. In the afternoon I took Lea to the Ara Cceli 
and Sta. Maria Maggiore. At the Ara Cceli great 
confusion prevails and much enthusiasm on account 
of a new miracle. When people were ill, upon their 
paying a scudo for the carriage, the Santo Bambino 
was brought by two of the monks, and left upon the 
sick-bed, to be fetched away some hours after in the 
same way. A sacrilegious lady determined to take 
advantage of this to steal the Bambino ; so she pre- 
tended her child was ill and paid her scudo ; but as 
soon as ever the monks were gone, she had a false 
Bambino, which she had caused to be prepared, dressed 
up in the clothes of the real one, and when the monks 
came back they took away the false Bambino without 
discovering the fraud, and carried it to the place of 
honour in the Church of Ara Cceli. 


"That night the convent awoke to fearful alarm, 
every bell rang at the same moment, awful sounds 
were heard at the doors ; the trembling brotherhood 
hastened to the church, but loud and fast the knocks 
continued on the very door of the sanctuary (' bussava, 
bussava, bussava '). At last they summoned courage 
to approach the entrance with lights, and behold, a 
little tiny pink child's foot, which was poked in under 
the door; and they opened the door wide, and there 
without, on the platform at the head of the steps, 
stood, in the wind and the rain, quite naked, the real 
Bambino of Ara Coeli. So then the real child was 
restored to its place, and the lady, confounded and 
disgraced, was bidden to take the false child home 

" Our donna, Louisa, was in ecstasies when she told 
us this story 'Oh com' e graziosa, oh com' e gra- 
ziosa questa storia/ and she never can understand 
why we do not send for the Bambino to cure Mother 
of all her ailments, though, in consequence of the 
theft, it is now never left alone in a house, but is 
taken away by the same monks who bring it. Lea 
was imprudent enough to say she did not believe the 
Bambino would ever do her any good ; but when Louisa, 
looking at her with wondering eyes, asked why, said 
weakly, 'Because I have such a bad heart, 1 in which 
Louisa quite acquiesced as a reason. 

" It had been a sad shadow hitherto over all this 
winter that my sweetest Mother had been so ill. At 
Parisani I had many sad days and nights too. She 
suffered almost constantly from pain in the back, and 
moaned in a way which went to my very heart. . . . 


Twice only in the fortnight was Mother able to get out 
to the Forum and walk in the sun from the Coliseum 
to the Capitol, and she felt the cold most terribly, and 
certainly the Palazzo was very cold. 

"At first, when we came to this house, Mother was 
better, and she was delighted with these rooms, which 
fulfilled a presentiment she had told me of before we 
left home, that this winter she should have the plea- 
santest apartment she had ever had yet. But on the 2 1 st 
she was chilled when driving with Mrs. Hall to Torre 
Quinto, and that evening quite lost her power of articu- 
lation. It only lasted about an hour. . . . She was 
conscious of it afterwards, and said, ( It was so odd, I 
was not able to speak.' Some days after, though able 
to articulate, she was unable to find the words she 
needed, calling the commonest things by their wrong 
names, and this was the more alarming as more likely 
to be continuous. On Thursday she was well enough 
to drive with me to the Aqua Acetosa, and walk there 
in the sun on the muddy Tiber bank, but that evening 
she became worse, and since then has scarcely been 
out of bed." 

" Dec. 30. On Saturday I was constantly restless, 
with a sense of fire near me, but could discover nothing 
burning in the apartment. I had such a strong pre- 
sentiment of fire that I refused to go out all day. 
When Lea came in with my tea at 8 P.M., I told her 
what an extraordinary noise I continually heard a 
sort of rushing over the ceiling, which was of strained 
canvas but she thought nothing of it. Soon after she 
was gone, a shower of sparks burst into the room and 


large pieces of burning wood forced their way through 
a hole in the ceiling. Shouting to Lea, I rushed up 
to the next floor, and rang violently and continuously 
at the bell, shouting ' Fuoco, fuoco ; ' but the owners 
of the apartment were gone to bed and would not get 
up ; so, without losing time, I flew downstairs, roused 
the porter, sent him off to fetch Ferdinando Manetti, 
who was responsible for our apartment, and then for 
the pompieri. Meantime the servants of Miss Robert- 
son, who lived below us, had come to our help, and 
assisted in keeping the fire under with sponges of 
water, while Lea and I rushed about securing money, 
valuables, drawings, &c., and then, dragging out our 
great boxes, began rapidly to fill them. Mother was 
greatly astonished at seeing us moving in and out with 
great piles of things in our arms, but did not realise at 
once what had happened. I had just arranged for her 
being wrapped up in blankets and carried through the 
streets to Palazzo Parisani, when the pompieri arrived. 
From that time there was no real danger. They tore 
up the bricks of the floor above us, and poured water 
through upon the charred and burning beams, and a 
cascade of black water and hot bricks tumbled through 
together into our drawing-room." 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

"Jan. I. Alas! I can give but a poor account of 
her who occupies all my real thoughts and interests. 
My sweetest Mother is still very, very feeble, and 
quite touchingly helpless. She varies like a ther- 
mometer with the weather, and if it is fine, is well 


enough to see Mrs. Hall and one or two friends, but 
she is seldom able to be dressed before twelve o'clock, 
and often has to lie down again before four. I seldom 
like to be away from her long, and never by day or 
night feel really free from anxiety." 


" Jan. 2, 1868. I have been out twice in the evening 
to Mrs. Ramsay to meet M. de Several, the ex- 
minister of Portugal, and his wife and daughter, and to 
Mrs. Hall to meet the Erskines. Mrs. Hall described 
a sermon she had lately heard at the Coliseum, the whole 
object of which was the glorification of Mary Queen of 
Scots. It was most painful, she said, describing how 
Elizabeth, who turned only to her Bible, died a prey 
to indescribable torments of mind, while Mary, cling- 
ing to her crucifix, died religiously and devoutly. 

" The Marchesa Serlupi has given a fearful account 
of the Albano tragedy. The old Marchese had come 
to them greatly worn out with his labours in attendance 
on the Pope during the canonisation, 1 and he was seized 
with cholera almost at once. When the doctor came, 
his hair was standing on end with horror. He said 
he had not sat down for eighteen hours, hurrying from 
one to another. He said the old Marchese had the 
cholera, and it was no use doing anything for him, he 
would be dead in a few hours. The Marchesa thought 
he had gone mad with fright, which in fact he had. 
When he was gone, she gave remedies of her own to 
the old man, which subdued the cholera at the time, 

1 Of the Japanese martyrs. 


but he sank afterwards from exhaustion. During that 
time the dead all around them were being carried out : 
the Appian Way was quite choked up by those who 
were in flight, and people were dying among the 
tombs all along the wayside. 

" As soon as the old Marchese was dead, the Serlupi 
family determined to fly. As the Marchesa had been 
constantly nursing the old man, she would not take 
her child with her, and sent him on first in another 
carriage. When they got half way, a man came up 
to them saying that the person who was with the child 
in the other carriage was in the agonies of death, and 
they had to take the child into their own carriage. At 
the half-way house they stopped to inquire for a party 
of friends who had preceded them : five had fled in 
the carriage, three were already dead ! There was 
only one remedy which was never known to fail : it 
was discovered by a Capuchin monk, and is given in 
wine. It is not known what the medicine is, and its 
effect entirely depends upon the exact proportions 
being given. The Marchesa used to send dozens of 
wine to the Capuchin, and then give it away impreg- 
nated with the medicine to the poor people in Rome. 

" To-day my darling has been rather better, and was 
able to drive for an hour on the Pincio. Yesterday 
evening she prayed aloud for herself most touchingly 
before both me and Lea, that God would look upon 
her infirmities, that He would forgive her weakness, 
and supply the insufficiency of her prayers. Her 
sweet pleading voice, tremulous with weakness, went 
to our hearts, and her trembling upturned look was 
inexpressibly affecting." 


" Feb. 4. When we first came here, we were much 
attracted by Francesca Bengivenga, a pleasant cordial 
woman who lets the apartment above us, and who 
lived in a corner of it with her nice respectable old 
mother. Lea went up to see them, and gave quite 
a pretty description of the old woman sitting quietly 
in her room at needlework, while the daughter bustled 

" On January 9 we were startled by seeing a pro- 
cession carrying the Last Sacraments up our staircase, 
and on inquiry heard that it was to a very old woman 
who was dying at the top of the house. Late in the 
evening it occurred to Lea that the sick person at the 
top of the house might perhaps be in want, and she 
went up to Francesca to inquire if she could be of any 
use. Then, for the first time, we heard that it had 
been Francesca's mother who had been ill, and that 
she had died an hour after the priests had been. Fran- 
cesca herself was in most terrible anguish of grief, but 
obliged to control herself, because only a few days 
before she had let her apartment, and did not venture 
to tell her lodgers what had occurred in the house. 
So whenever the bell rang, she had to dry her tears 
by an effort, and appear as if nothing had happened. 
We urged her to reveal the truth, which at length she 
did with a great burst of sobs, and the tenants took it 
well. The next day at four o'clock the old woman was 
carried away, and on the following morning I pleased 
Francesca by attending at the messa cantata in S. 
Andrea delle Fratte. 

"On January 10 Charlotte and Gina Leycester 
arrived. By way of showing civilities to acquaintance, 


I have had several excursions to the different hills, 
explaining the churches and vineyards with the sights 
they contain. On the Aventine I had a very large 
too large a party. With the Erskines I went to San 
Salvatore in Lauro, where the old convent is partially 
turned into a barrack, and was filled with Papal 
Zouaves, who spoke a most unintelligible jargon which 
turned out to be High Dutch. A very civil little officer, 
however, took us into a grand old chapel opening 
out of the cloisters, but now occupied as a soldiers' 
dormitory, and filled with rows of beds, while groups 
of soldiers were sitting on the altar-steps and on 
the altar itself, and had even piled their arms and 
hung up their knapsacks on the splendid tomb of Pope 
Eugenius IV., which was the principal object of our 
visit. 1 We went on hence to the Vallicella, where we 
saw the home and relics of S. Filippo Neri his fine 
statue in the sacristy, his little cell with its original 
furniture, his stick, his shoes, the crucifix he held 
when he was dying, the coffin in which he lay in 
state, the pictures which belonged to him, and the 
little inner chapel with the altar at which he prayed, 
adorned with the original picture, candlesticks, and 

"Another excursion has been to the Emporium, 
reached by an unpleasant approach, the Via della Serpe 
behind the Marmorata, an Immondezzajo half a mile 
long; but it is a fine mass of ruin, with an old 
gothic loggia, in a beautiful vineyard full of rare 
and curious marbles. Close by, on the bank of the 

1 It is therefore not fair to say that the desecration of the Roman 
churches has only occurred since the Sardinian occupation. 


Tiber, the ancient port of the Marmorata is now 
being cleaned out. 

" My dearest Mother continues very ailing and 
terribly weak, but I am hopeful now (as the cold 
months are so far advanced), that we may steer 
through the remainder of the winter, and that I may 
once more have the blessing of taking her back to 
England restored to health and power. Every Friday 
she has been seriously ill, but has rallied afterwards. 
On Friday 1 7th, she was very ill, and I was too 
anxious about her to rest at all during the night, but 
perpetually flitted ghost-like in and out of her room. 
Last Friday again she was, if anything, worse still, such 
a terrible cloud coming over all her powers, with the 
most complete exhaustion. I scarcely left her all day. 
When these sad days are over, life becomes quite 
different, so heavy is the burden lifted off, and it is 
difficult to realise all that they have been, the wearing 
anxiety as to what is best to be done, the terribly 
desolate future seeming so near at hand, all the after 
scenes presenting themselves so vividly, like fever 
phantoms, to the imagination, and then sometimes 
the seeming carried with my dearest one to the very 
gates of the unseen world. . . . She is always patient, 
always self-forgetful, and her obedience to her ' doctor,' 
as she calls me, is too touching, too entirely confiding 
and childlike. Oh, if our unity is broken by death, no 
one, no one will ever realise what it has been. Come 
what will, I can bless God for this winter, in which that 
union has been without one tarnished moment, one pass- 
ing difference, in which my sweetest one has entirely 
leant upon me, and I have entirely lived for her. 


" Feb. 9. There is no improvement in my dearest 
Mother. If there is a temporary rally, it is followed 
by a worse attack and intense fits of exhaustion, and 
the effort of going up and down stairs fatigues her 
so much that it is difficult to judge how far it is wise 
to gratify her constant craving for air. On Tuesday, 
Lea and I took her to the Monte Mario, and she sat 
in the carriage while we got out and picked flowers 
in the Villa Mellini. That day she was certainly better, 
and able to enjoy the drive to a certain degree, and to 
admire the silver foam of the fountains of St. Peter's 
as we passed them. I often think how doubly touch- 
ing these and many other beautiful sights may become 
to me, if I should be left here, when she, with whom 
I have so often enjoyed them, has passed away from 
us to the vision of other and more glorious scenes. 

" It is in these other scenes, not here, that I often 
think my darling's mind is already wandering. When 
she sits in her great weakness, doing nothing, yet so 
quiet, and with her loving beautiful smile ever on her 
revered countenance, it is surely of no earthly scenes 
that my darling is thinking. 

" In the night I am often seized with an irresistible 
longing to know how she is, and then I steal quietly 
through the softly opening doors into her room and 
watch her asleep by the light of the night-lamp. Even 
then the face in its entire repose wears the same sweet 
expression of childlike confidence and peace. 

" I dined with Mrs. Robert Bruce one day, meeting 
Miss Monk and Cavendish Taylor, and went with 
them afterwards to see the 'Grande Duchesse de 
Gerolstein' acted. It was in a booth in the Piazza. 


Navona, such as is generally used for wild beasts at 
a fair, and where one would expect an audience of the 
very lowest of the people ; but instead the place was 
crowded with the most elite of the Roman princes 
and their families. The acting was wonderful, and 
the dresses and scenery very beautiful. It is said that 
the actors are a single family, fourteen sons, three 
daughters, and their cook ! 

"At the Shakspeare Woods' I met Miss Charlotte 
Cushman, the great American tragic actress, who has 
been living here for some years. She was the Mrs. 
Siddons of her time in America, and places were taken 
weeks beforehand for the nights when she acted. She 
does a great deal of good here and is intensely beloved. 
In appearance she is much like Miss Boyle, 1 with white 
hair rolled back, and is of most winning and gracious 
manners. I went to a party at her house last night, 
and never saw anything more dignified and graceful 
than her reception of her guests, or more charming 
than her entertainment of them. She sang, but as she 
has little voice left, it was rather dramatic representa- 
tion than song, though most beautiful and pathetic. 

"The American Consul, Mr. Cushman, told me he 
had crossed the Atlantic forty-seven times. The last 
time he returned was during the cholera at Albano, and 
he described its horrors. A hundred and fifty people 
died in the village on the first day, and were all thrown 
immediately into a large pit by a regiment of Zouaves, 
happily quartered there, and were tumbled in just as 
they happened to fall. The next day, so many more 
died, that soldiers were sent down into the pit to pack 

1 The Hon. Carolina Courtenay Boyle, maid of honour. 


the bodies closer, so as to fit more in. The bodies 
already in the pit were so entangled, that several arms 
and legs were pulled off in the process. The Zouaves 
employed in the work all died." 

I often saw Miss Cushman afterwards, and 
greatly valued her friendship. Hers was a 
noble and almost unique character, a benignant 
influence upon all she came in contact with. 
Her youth had been a long struggle, but it gave 
her a wonderful sympathy with young artists 
striving as she herself had done, and for them 
her purse, her hand, and her heart were always 
open. When she was only a "stock actress," 
the wife of the manager, who played herself 
and was jealous of her talents, got her husband 
to give her a very inferior part : it was that of 
Nancy Sykes in "Oliver Twist." Miss Cushman 
saw through the motive, and determined to 
prepare herself thoroughly. She disappeared. 
She went down to the worst part of the town, 
and remained for four days amongst all the 
lowest women there, till she understood them 
thoroughly and could imitate their peculiarities 
to perfection. Her first appearance, when she 
strolled on to the stage chewing a sprig of a 
tree, as they all do, took the house by storm, 
and from that time it was at her feet. The 
play of "Guy Mannering" was written to suit 


her in the part of Meg Merrilies. She would 
take an hour and a half to get herself up for 
it, painting all the veins on her arms, &c., and 
her success was wonderful. 

She had been originally intended for an 
opera-singer, but, just when she was to appear, 
she had a dangerous illness, and, when she re- 
covered, her voice was gone. But she wasted 
no time in regrets : she immediately turned 
to being an actress. This power of making 
the best of whatever was, formed one of the 
grandest traits of her character. 

She died of what, to many, is the most 
terrible of all diseases. She insisted on an 
operation ; but when she went to have it re- 
peated, the great surgeons told her it was no 
use, and advised her to devote her remaining 
life to whatever would most take her out of 
herself and make her forget her pain. Then 
she, who had left the stage so long, went back 
to it as Meg Merrilies again and had all her 
old triumphs. And the last time she appeared, 
when she, as it were, took leave of the stage 
for ever, she repeated the words " I shall haunt 
this old glen," &c., in a way which sent a cold 
shiver down the backs of all who heard them. 

Miss Stebbings' interesting Life of Miss 
Cushman is inadequate. It dwells too much 


on the successful part. What were really in- 
teresting, and also useful to those beginning 
life, would have been the true story of the 
struggles of her youth, and how her noble 
nature overcame them. 


" Feb. 10. My dearest Mother is better and up again, 
sweet and smiling. Last week, after poor Mrs. C. 
had died, Mrs. Ramsay, not knowing it, sent to inquire 
after her. 'E andatain Paradise,' said her old servant 
Francesco, quite simply, when he came back." 

"Feb. 25. On the i6th old Don Francesco Chigi 
died, a most well-known figure to be missed out of 
Roman life. He was buried with perfectly mediaeval 
pomp the next day at the Popolo. The procession 
down the Corso from the Chigi Palace was most 
gorgeous, the long line of princely carriages and the 
running footmen with their huge torches and splendid 
liveries, the effect enhanced by the darkness of the 
night, for it was at nine o'clock in the evening. 

" Yesterday I rushed with all the world to St. 
Peter's to stare at the bridal of Donna Guendalina 
Doria, who had just been married at S. Agnese to 
the Milanese Conte della Somaglia. The Pope gave her 
his benediction and a prayer-book bound in solid gold 
and diamonds. Thirteen carriages full of relations 
escorted her to St. Peter's, but very few had courage 
to come with her into the church. She looked well in a 
long lace veil and white silk cloak striped with gold. 


" My sweet Mother has gained very little ground 
the last fortnight. Yesterday for the first time she 
went out carried down and upstairs by Benedetto 
and Louisa, and drove with Charlotte to the Villa 
Doria. But in the evening her breathing was difficult. 
To-day I drove with Lady Bloomfield 1 and Jane 
Adeane to the Campagna, and when I came back I 
found that she had been quite ill the whole time. The 
dear face looks sadly worn." 

" Feb. 27. When I went into my darling's room at 
3 A.M., both she and Lea were sleeping quietly, but 
when I went again at six, the Mother had been long 
awake, and oppressed with great difficulty of breath- 
ing. At half-past nine Dr. Grilli came and begged for 
another opinion. . . . How did I bear it when he said 
that my darling was in the greatest danger, that if she 
would desire any spiritual consolations, they ought to 
be sent for ! Then I lost all hope. ' No,'. I said, ' she 
has long lived more in heaven than on earth.' 'Quello 
se vede,' said Dr. Grilli. 

" I questioned whether she should be told the danger 
she was in, but I decided not ; for has not my darling 
been for years standing on the threshold of the heavenly 
kingdom ? Death could to her only be the passing quite 
over that threshold, and to us the last glimpse of her 
most sweet presence here. 

" 2 P.M. Charlotte Leycester and Emma Simpkinson 
have been with me in the room all morning by turns. 

1 My cousins, Lord and Lady Bloomfield, and the Dowager Lady 
Barrington, with her daughter Augusta, were spending the winter in 


I cannot but think her slightly better. The shutter 
has just been opened that she may see the sun, which 
poured into the room. My darling was sitting up then 
and smiled to see it. 

"5j P.M. Waiting for the consultation of doc- 
tors. How I dread it, yet I cannot but think they will 
find my darling better. I have a feeling that there 
must still be hope. At two I went in a carriage to the 
Villa Negroni, 1 as the most solitary place I knew, and 
there spent an hour on that terraced walk beneath the 
house in which I was born, where my two mothers 
walked up and down together before my birth, and 
where I have often been, oh ! so happy in the sunshine 
of her presence who is life to me. 

" Coming back, I went into the Church of the 
Angeli. A white Carthusian was kneeling there alone. 
I knelt too and prayed not that God would give my 
darling back to me unless it were His will, but oh ! 
so earnestly that there might be no pain in her de- 

" Mrs. Woodward and Miss Finucane want to come 
and sit up always good and kind. Grilli has been this 
evening with Dr. Bertoldi, and says everything de- 
pends on how she passes the next night : if she sleeps 
and the breathing becomes easier, we may hope, but 
even then it will be most difficult to regain the ground 
lost. In this I buoy myself up that they know nothing 
of her wonderful power of rallying. 

"When Charlotte went away for the night, she 
said, ' I shall think of you, dear, and pray for you 

1 This beautiful villa and its lovely grounds have been entirely de- 
stroyed under the Sardinian Government. 



very much to-night.' 'Yes, into the Lord's hands I 
commend my spirit/ said my darling solemnly. 

"9 A.M. Feb. 28, Friday, Last night, when I 
wished her good-night, she said in her sweetest manner, 
' Don't be too anxious ; it is all in His hands.' Lea went 
to bed and Emma Simpkinson sat upon the sofa. I 
went in and out all through the night. Since 4 A.M. 
she has been less well ! 

"6 P.M. I went rapidly to-day in a little car- 
riage to St. Peter's, and kneeling at the grating of 
the chapel of the Sacrament by Sixtus IV.'s tomb, I 
implored God to take two years out of my life and to 
add them to my Mother's. I could not part with her 
now. If there is power in prayer, I must have been 
heard. I was back within the hour. 

" When Charlotte came, she repeated to the Mother 
the texts about the saints in white robes, and then 
said ' Perhaps, dear, you will be with them soon 
perhaps it is as in our favourite hymn, " Just passing 
over the brink."' 'Yes/ said my darling, 'it cannot 
last long ; this is quite wearing me out.' I heard this 
through the door, for I could not bear to be in the 
room. Then Charlotte said, 'The Lord be with you/ 
or similar words, and my darling answered ' Yes, and 
may He be with those who are left as well as with 
those who are taken.' At this moment I came in and 
kissed my darling. Charlotte, not knowing I had heard, 
then repeated what she had said. ' She is praying that 
God may be with you and with me/ she said. I could 
not bear it, and went back to the next room. Char- 
lotte came in and kissed me. ' I cannot say what I 


feel for you,' she said. I begged her not to say so 
now, 'as long as there was anything to be done I 
must not give way.' " 

" 3 P.M. Saturday. The night was one of terrible 
suffering. Mrs. Woodward sat up, but I could not 
leave the room. In the morning my darling said, ' I 
never thought it would have been like this ; I thought 
it would have been unconscious. The valley of the 
Shadow of Death is a dark valley, but there is light at 
the end. . . . No more pain. . . . The Rock of Ages, 
that is my rock.' Then I read the three prayers in 
the Visitation Service. ' It will be over soon,' she 
said ; ' I am going to rest.' 

" ' Will you give me some little word of blessing, 
darling ? ' I said. ( The Lord keep you and comfort 
you, my dear child,' she said. ' Don't fret too much. 
He will give you comfort.' I had begged that Mrs. 
Woodward would call in Lea, who was now kneel- 
ing between us at the bedside. 'And you bless 
poor Lea too,' I said. 'Yes, dear Lea; she has been 
a most good and faithful and dear servant to me. I 
pray that God may be with her and John, and keep 
them, and I hope that they will be faithful and loving 
to you, as they have been to me, as long as you need 
them. ... Be reconciled to all who have been unkind 
to you, darling ; love them all, this is my great wish, 
love love love oh, I have tried to live for love 
oh ! love one another, that is the great thing love, 
love, love ! ' 

" ' The Lord bless and comfort you, dear,' she said 
to Charlotte. ' Be a mother to my child.' ' I will,' 


said Charlotte, and then my darling's hand took mine 
and held it. 

"'We look for the salvation of the Lord Jesus 
Christ/ said Charlotte. 'Yes, and it was here that 
it first dawned upon me ... through much tribula- 
tion. . . . He will be with me, and He will be with 
those who are left.' 

" ' We look for the^King in His beauty,' said Char- 
lotte. 'Yes, beauty such as we have never seen,' 
my darling said. ' Eye hath not seen nor ear heard 
the things which God hath prepared for them that 
love Him. Oh, I have been able to serve Him very 
little.' 'Yes, darling, but you have loved Him much.' 

" ' I send my love to all my dear ones in England ; 
none are forgotten, none.' Then, after a pause, 'Tell 
your sister that we shall meet where there is no more 
controversy, and where we shall know thoroughly as 
we are known.' 

" In the night the terrible pain came on, which 
lasted many hours and gave us all such anguish. ' And 
He bore all this,' she said, and at one of her worst 
moments ' He that trusteth in Thee shall never be 
put to confusion.' What these trembling words were 
to us I cannot say, with her great suffering and the 
sadly sunken look of her revered features. Mrs. 
Woodward cried bitterly. 

" ' Mine eyes look to the hills, from whence cometh 
my help,' said Charlotte when she came in. ' You have 
loved the Psalms so much, haven't you, dear ? ' ' Yes, 
the Psalms so much.' 'All Thy waves and storms 
pass over me,' said Charlotte, ' but the Rock resisteth 
the flood.' 'Yes, the Rock! sa ^ mv darling. 'The 


floods lift up their waves, but the Lord is mightier.' 
'He is mightier,' she repeated. 'The Lord is a 
refuge and a strong tower/ said Charlotte. ' He is 
indeed? she answered with emphasis; ' it is a dark 
valley, but there is light beyond, for He is the strength 
of my heart and my portion for ever.' 

" She bade me in the early morning not to leave her, 
and I sat by her without moving from 6 A.M. till I P.M. 
' Oh, you will all be so tired/ she said once. When 
she was very ill, Charlotte leant over her and said, 
1 1 am oppressed, O Lord, undertake for me : may the 
everlasting arms be beneath you.' ' Yes,' she said." 

" March i, Sunday morning. How long it is ! At 
6 P.M. she was very restless and suffering. At last 
she gave me her hand and lay down with me support- 
ing the pillows behind. She spoke quite clearly, and 
said, 'My blessing and darling, may you be blessed 
in time and eternity ! ' This quiet sleep seemed to 
soothe and rest her, and afterwards Lea was able to 
take my place for an hour. But the night was terrible. 
Mrs. Woodward and Miss Finucane both sat up 
with me. Once she said, 'Through the grave and 
the gate of death ... a glorious resurrection.' At 
seven, she was speaking again, and leaning over her I 
heard, ' How long, how long ? when will the Bride- 
groom come ? ' " 

" 4 P.M. Monday, March 2. A rather less suffering 
night. Dear Miss Garden sat up with me, saying 
she felt as if it was her own mother who was lying 
there, and Mother rambled gently to her about 'going 


home.' At 7 A.M. she fell asleep sweetly with her 
hand clasped in both of mine. I did not venture to 
move, and sank from my knees into a sitting position 
on the floor; so we remained for nearly an hour. 
When she waked, her moan was more definite. ' Oh, 
for rest ! oh, for rest ! ' I said, * Darling, rest is 
coming soon.' 'Yes,' she said, 'my health will all 
come back to me soon ; no infirmities and no pains 
any more/' 

" 10 A.M. When Charlotte went at nine, I thought 
my darling sinking more rapidly, and Dr. Grilli when 
he came told us it was all but impossible she could 
rally. She looks to me at moments quite passing 
away. I would not call my darling back for worlds 
now : if God took her, I could only be lost in thank- 
fulness that her pains were over. Oh, that she may 
be soon in that perfect health which we shall not 
be permitted to see. I scarcely leave her a moment 
now, though it is agony to me if she coughs or suffers. 
Can I afford to lose one look from those beloved eyes, 
one passing expression of those revered features ? So 
I sit beside her through the long hours, now moisten- 
ing her lips, now giving her water from a spoon, now 
and then a little soup-jelly, which she finds it easier 
to swallow than the soup itself, and now and then my 
darling gently gives me her hand to hold in mine. 
' Rest in bliss,' she said to Mrs. Woodward, 'rest 
ever in bliss.' Afterwards Charlotte said, ' When thou 
passest through the waters, they shall not overflow 
thee : underneath thee are . . . the everlasting arms.' 

" I2| P.M. Charlotte has repeated sentences from 
the Litany ' By Thine agony and bloody sweat.' We 


thought she scarcely understood at first, then her lips, 
almost inaudibly, repeated the sentences. Soon she 
said, ' It is so long coming ! ' Then Charlotte read, 
' Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they 
rest from their labours.' She opened her eyes, looked 
up at Charlotte, and said, ' Oh, how well I know you ! ' 

" I P.M. After some minutes' quiet she opened her 
eyes with surprise and said, ' I thought I was safe 
home ; I thought I was, yet I can move, so I suppose it 
will not be yet.' 

" 2 P.M. Her face has lost all its troubled look, and 
though she still moans, there is a happy appearance 
of repose stealing over her features. 

"3 P.M. When C. L. came in she said, ' Oh, 
Charlotte, I thought it was all over. I did not hear 
the noise of the waves any more. Oh, they were so 
very tormenting, and then, when I did not hear them, 
I thought it was over, and then I heard your voice, 
and I knew I was still here. ... I have no more pain 
now. ... It was very long, but I suppose He thought 
He would knock out all that was bad in me.' 

" Midnight, Monday. After a terrible afternoon, she 
had such an extraordinary rally in the evening that 
we all began to hope. But soon after there was 
another change. Her features altered, her face sunk, 
but her expression was of the most transcendent happi- 
ness. Thinking the last moment was come, we knelt 
around the bed, I alone on the right ; Charlotte, Lea, 
and Mrs. Woodward on the left; the nurse, Angela 
Mayer, at the foot. Charlotte and Mrs. W. prayed 
aloud. Then my darling, in broken accents, difficult 
to understand, but which I, leaning over her, re- 


peated to the others, began to speak 1 1 am going to 
glory ... I have no pain now ... I see the light . . . 
Oh, I am so happy ... no more trouble or sorrow or 
sin ... so extremely happy . . . may you all meet 
me there, not one of you be wanting.' 

" I, leaning over her, said, ' Do you know me still, 
darling ? ' ' Yes, I know and bless you, my dearest 
son . . . peace and love . . . glory everlasting . . . 
all sins and infirmities purged away . . . rest . . . 
love . . . glory . . . reign for ever . . . see Christ. 

" ' Oh, be ready ! 

" l Mary and Arthur and Kate and Emmie and 
Mamie, faithful servants of Christ, to meet me there in 
His kingdom. 

" ' Let peace and love remain with you always. This 
is my great wish, peace and love . . . peace and love.' 

" After saying this, my mother solemnly folded her 
trembling hands together on her breast, and looking up 
to heaven, said, 'Oh, Lord Jesus, come quickly, and 
may all these meet me again in Thy kingdom!' As 
she said this, my darling's eyes seemed fixed upon 
another world. 

" After this I begged the others to leave me alone 
with her, and then my dearest one said to me, ' Yes, 
darling, our love for one another on earth is coming to 
an end now. We have loved one another very deeply. 
I don't know how far communion will be still possible, 
but I soon shall know ; and if it be possible, I shall 
still be always near you. I shall so love to see and 
know all you are doing, and to watch over you ; and 
when you hear a little breeze go rustling by, you must 
think it is the old Mother still near you. . . . You will 


do all I wish, darling, I know. I need not write, you 
will carry out all my wishes.' 'Yes, dearie/ I said, 
' it will be my only comfort when you are gone to do 
all you would have wished. I will always stay at 
Holmhurst, darling, and I will continue going to Alton, 
and I will do everything else I can think of that you 
would like.' 

" ' Yes, and you must try to conquer self ... to 
serve God here, and then we may be together again in 
heaven. . . . Oh, we must be together again there.' 

" Lea now came in, and my darling stroked her face 
while she sobbed convulsively. 'Your long work is 
done at last,' Mother said ; ' I have been a great trouble 
to you both, and perhaps it is as well I should be 
taken away now, for I am quite worn out. Tell John 
and all of them that I am sorry to leave them, but 
perhaps it was for the best ; for this is not an illness ; 
it is that I am worn out. . . . You and Augustus will 
stay together and comfort one another when I am 
gone, and you will bear with one another's infirmities 
and help one another. The great thing of all is to 
be able to confess that one has been in the wrong. 
Oh, peace and love, peace and love, these are the 
great things.' 

" ' Have I been a good child to you, dearest ? ' I said. 
'Oh, yes, indeed dear and good, dear and good; a 
little wilful perhaps you used to be, but not lately ; you 
have been all good tome lately dear and good.' ('Yes, 
that he has,' said Lea.) 'Faithful and good,' my darling 
repeated, ' both of you faithful and good.' 

" Charlotte now came in. ' Here is Charlotte.' 
' Dear Charlotte ! Oh yes, I know you. I do not 


know whether there will be any communication where 
I am going, but if there is, I shall be very near you. 
I am going to rest . . . rest everlasting. Be a mother 
to my child. Comfort him when I am gone . . . give 
him good advice. . . . You know what suggestions I 
should make. . . . You will say to him what I should 
say . . . and if he could have a good wife, that would 
be the best thing . . . for what would you do, my 
child, in this lonely world ? . . . No, a good wife, that 
is what I wish for you a good wife and a family home. 
"'And now I should like to speak to kind Mrs. 
Woodward' (she came in). ' Thank you so much ; you 
have been very good and kind to me, dear Mrs. Wood- 
ward. I am going fast to my heavenly home. I have 
said all I meant to have written all the time I have 
been ill, and have never been able . . . my mouth has 
been opened that I might speak.' " 

"7 A.M. March 3.' Oh, it is quite beautiful. 
Good-bye, my own dearest ! I cannot believe that 
you will look up into the clouds and think that I am 
only there . . . but you will also see me in the flowers 
and in my friends, and in all that I have loved.' 

"8 A.M. With the morning light my dearest 
Mother has seemed to become more rapt in holy 
thoughts and visions, her eyes more intently fixed 
on the unseen world. At last, with a lot>k of rapture 
she has exclaimed, ' Oh, angels, I see angels ! ' and 
since then pain seems to have left her. 

"8| A.M. (To Lea.) 'You will take care of him 
and comfort him, as you have always taken care of 
me: you have been a dear servant to me.' 'Yes,' 


said Lea, ' I will always stay with him and take 
care of him as long as I live. I took care of your 
dear husband, and I have taken care of you, and I 
will take care of him as long as he wants me.' 
' Darling sweet/ I said to her. ' Yes, darling sweet,' 
she repeated, with inexpressible tenderness. ' I always 
hear the tender words you say to me, dear, even in 
my dreams/ Then she said also to Mrs. Woodward, 
'You have been very kind to us; you will comfort 
Augustus when he is left desolate : you know what 
sorrow is, you have gone through the valley. . . . 
It seems so much worse for otfoers than for me. . . . 
For then I shall begin really to live.' 

"All this time my darling lay with her eyes up- 
turned and an expression of rapt beatitude. The 
nurse says that in her forty years' nursing she never 
saw any one like this, so quiet, so happy. ' Nothing 
ever puts her out or makes her complain : I never 
saw anything like it.' 1 

11 8 \ A.M. ' It is very difficult to realise that when 
you are absent from the body you are present with 
the Lord/ 

" 10 A.M. Dr. Grilli says she may live till evening, 
even possibly into the night. She has just said, a 
little wandering, 'You know in a few days some 
pretty sweet violets will come up, and that will be 
all that will be left to you of the dear Mother/ 

1 " Look at a pious person, man or woman, one in whom the spirit 
sways the senses : look at them when they are praying or have risen 
from their knees, and see with how bright a ray of divine beauty their 
faces are illuminated : you will see the beauty of God shine on their 
faces : you will see the beauty of an angel." SAVONAROLA, Sermons. 


" ii J A.M. She has taken leave of Emma Simp- 
kinson and Miss Garden. When I came in she took 
my hand and said, 'And you, darling, I shall always 
think of you, and you will think of me. I shall 
spring up again like the little violets, and I shall 
put on an incorruptible body. I shall be always 
floating over you and watching over you somehow : 
we shall never be separated ; and my body will rest 
beside that of my dear husband. So strange it should 
be here; perhaps, if it had been anywhere else, I 
might have wished to get better, but as it was here, 
the temptation was too great. I am quite worn out. 
I thought I could not get better after my last illness, 
and I was given back to you for a little while, though 
I have always felt very weak, but I shall be quite 
well now.' 

" 10 A.M. March 4. All night she wandered gently, 
saying that she would ' go out and play with the little 
children ; for there can be nothing bad amongst very 
little children.' In the morning Charlotte still thought 
there was a chance of her rallying, but Emma Simp- 
kinson and I both think her sinking, and Dr. Grilli 
says that ' sussulti tendin6si ' of the pulses have come 
on, and that there is not the slightest hope. It can 
probably only be two hours, though it may last till 
evening. He has formally taken leave, saying that 
medicine is useless, and that it is no use for him 
to return any more. Since the early morning my 
darling has been lying with her hand in mine, leaning 
her head against mine on the pillow, her eyes turned 
upwards, her lips constantly moving in inarticulate 


prayer. She has asked, 'What day is it? I think 
it is my birthday to-day.' I have not told her it is 
her father's birthday, as I believe it will be her own 
birthday in heaven. 

"11 A.M. She has again appeared to be at the 
last extremity. Raising her eyes to heaven and taking 
my hand, she has prayed fervently but inaudibly. 
Then she prayed audibly for blessings for me and 
Lea, and, with a grateful look to Emma, added, ' And 
for dear Emma too.' 

" I P.M. She wandered a little, and asked if the 
battle was over. ' Yes,' said Lea, ' and the victory 

" ij P.M. 'I am all straight now, no more 
crookedness. . . . You must do something, dear, to 
build yourself up; you must be a good deal pulled 
down by all this. . . . Rest now, but work, work for 
God in life. 

" ' Don't expect too much good upon earth. 

" ' Don't expect too much perfection in one another. 

" ' Work for eternity. 

" ' Only try for love. 

" 2 P.M. 'Oh, how happy I am ! I have everything 
I want here and hereafter.' 

"2.10. (With eyes uplifted and hands clasped.) 
. . . ' Living water. The Lamb, the Lamb is the 

"2.15. C. L. repeated at her request ' Abide with 
me, fast falls the eventide.' 

"2.30. The dear Mother herself, with her changed 
voice, clasped hands, and uplifted eyes, has repeated 
the hymn 'Just as I am, without one plea.' 


" 3 P.M. ' I am glad I am not going to stay. I 
could not do you any more good, and I am so happy.' 

"4 P.M. (With intense fervour.) 'O God, O 
God ! God alone can save one and eternal. Amen ! 
Amen ! ' 

"4.15. 'Let us be one in heaven, dear, as we are 
one on earth.' 

"4.30. 'Oh, let me go. ... I have said I was 
ready to go so often, but you won't give me up.' I 
said, ' I think you had better try to sleep a little now, 
darling.' ' Yes, but let it be the last : I have had so 
many, many last sleeps.' 'You are in no pain now, 
dearie ? ' I said. ' Oh no, no pain ; there is no pain on 
the borderland of heaven. 

" ' May He who ruleth all, both in heaven and earth, 
bless you, my child bless you and keep you from ill. 
Love, love, perfect love, love on earth and then love 
in heaven. ... I can hear words from the upper world 
now and none from the nearer. They have taught me 
things that were dark to me before.' 

" 5 P.M. ' Peace be with you, peace and love. 

" ' Sin below, grace above. 

" 'We sinners below, Christ above. 

'"All love, all truth in Jesus Christ, my Lord and 
my God.' 

" 5j P.M. 'Oh, let it be. It could not be better 
no doubt, no difficulty. ... All the good things 
of this world, what are they ? . . . soon pass away 
- pride, vanity, vexation of spirit ; but oh ! love ! 
love ! ' It was after saying these words that my 
darling's face became quite radiant, and that she looked 
upward with an expression of rapture. ' I see a 


white dove/ she said, ' oh, such a beautiful white dove, 
floating towards me.' Soon after this she exclaimed, 
' Oh, Lord Jesus, oh, come quickly '. . . . When she 
opened her eyes, ' What a wilful child you are ! you 
will not let your mother depart, and she is so ready.' 
' Is it he who keeps you ? ' said C. L. ' No, a better 
One ; but let me go or let me stay, O Lord, I have no 
will but Thine.' " l 

" 2 A.M. March 5. During the night she has prayed 
constantly aloud for various relations and friends by 
name, and often for me. Once she said, ' Ever up- 
right, ever just, sometimes irritable, weak in tem- 
perament, that others should love him as I have 
done . . . and a good wife, that is what I have 
always thought.' 

"8 P.M. March 5. Twice to-day there has been 
a sudden sinking of nature, life almost extinct, and 
then, owing to the return of fever, there has been a 
rally. She became excited if I left her even for a 
moment, so through last night and to-day I have con- 
stantly sat behind her on the bed, supporting her head 
on a pillow in my arms. 

" 10 P.M. Emma Simpkinson is come for the 
night, but there is a strange change. My mother is 
asleep ! quietly asleep the fever is reduced after the 
aconite which 1 insisted upon, and which the homoeo- 
pathic doctor said must end her life in half-an-hour. 

1 There is a passage in Rudyard Kipling which exactly describes my 
mother's state at this lime. " The mind was quickened, and the revolv- 
ing thoughts ground against each other, as millstones grind when there 
is no corn between." 


"Friday evening, March 6. All day there has been 
a rally, and she has now power to cough again. 
Grilli had given the case up, so at noon to-day I had 
no scruple in sending for Dr. Topham, writing full 
explanation of the strange case. He says it is the 
most extraordinary he has ever seen and a most in- 
teresting study ' Before such a miracle of nature, 
science can only sit still.' Life still hangs on a thread, 
but there is certainly an improvement. She knows 
none but me." 

" Saturday evening, March 7. What a quiet day 
of respite we have had after all the long tension and 
anxiety. My darling's face has resumed a natural 
expression, and she now lies quite quiet, sleeping, and 
only rousing herself to take nourishment." 

I have copied these fragments from my 
journal of two terrible weeks, written upon my 
knees by my mother's side, when we felt every 
hour must be the last, and that her words, so 
difficult to recall afterwards, would be almost 
our only consolation when the great desolation 
had really fallen. But no description can give 
an idea of the illness of the strange luminous- 
ness of the sunken features, such as one reads 
of in lives of Catholic saints of the marvellous 
beauty of her expression of the thrilling 
accents in which many words were spoken, 
from which her sensitive retiring nature would 


have shrunk in health. Had there been physi- 
cally any reason for hopefulness, which there 
was not had the doctors given any hope of 
recovery, which they did not, her appearance, 
her words, her almost transfiguration would 
have assured us that she was on the threshold 
of another world. I feel that those who read 
must like those who saw almost experience 
a sort of shock at her being given back to 
us again. Yet I believe that God heard my 
prayer in St. Peter's for the two years more. 
During that time, and that time only, she was 
spared to bless us, and to prepare me better 
for the final separation when it really came. 
She was also spared to be my support in another 
great trial of my life, to which we then never 
looked forward. But I will return to my 
journal, with which ordinary events now again 
entwine themselves. 

"March 10, 1868. My darling is gradually but 
slowly regaining strength, the doctor saying he can 
give no medicine, but that he can only stand still in 
awe before the marvels of nature, whilst we, the 
watchers, are gradually rallying from the great strain 
and tension of the last week. 

" Yesterday was Santa Francesca Romana's day. 
I went to her house, the old Ponziani Palace, now 
the Ezercizii Pii, hung outside for the day with battered 

VOL. in. P 


tapestry and strewn within with box. The rooms inside 
are the same as when the Saint lived in them, with 
raftered ceilings, and many of them turned into chapels. 
Downstairs is the large room which she turned into a 
hospital, and there is a bright open courtyard planted 
with orange-trees, though certainly nothing of the ' mag- 
nificent Ponziani Palace ' described by Lady Georgiana 
Fullerton in her book. 

" Thence to the Tor de' Specchi, where a cardinal, 
a number of Roman ladies, and a crowd of others 
were passing through the bright old rooms covered 
with frescoes and tapestry, and looking into the plea- 
sant courtyards of the convent with their fountains 
and orange-trees. Upstairs is a fine chapel, where the 
skeleton of the Saint lies under the altar, dressed as 
an Oblate (with the face exposed), but in a white veil and 
white gloves ! The living Oblates fl itting about were very 
interesting picturesque-looking women, mostly rather old. 
Several relics of Santa Francesca are preserved. On a 
table near the entrance was the large flat vase in which 
she made ointment for the poor, filled with flowers. 

" On Sunday, when many ladies went to the Pope, 
he made them a little sermon about their guardian angels 
and Sta. Francesca Romana." 

"March 15. My sweet Mother is in almost exactly 
the same state a sort of dormouse existence, and so 
weak that she can scarcely hold up her head ; yet she 
has been twice wheeled into the sitting-room. 

11 1 have been with the Fitzmaurices to the Castle of 
S. Angelo, very curious, and the prisons of Beatrice 
Cenci and her stepmother, most ghastly and horrid 


There are between seven and eight hundred men 
there now, and many prisoners. Over the prison doors 
passers-by had made notes in chalk : one was ' O voi 
che entrate qui, lasciate ogni speranza ; ' another, ' On 
sait quand on entre, on ne sait pas quand on sort ; ' 
another, ' Hotel des Martyrs.' 


"On Friday evening I rushed with all the world 
to the receptions of the new cardinals first to the 
Spanish Embassy, then to the Colonna to see Cardinal 
Bonaparte, 2 who has a most humble manner and a 

1 From " Northern Italy." 

2 Prince Lucien, son of the Roman Prince Charles Lucien (nephew 
of Napoleon I.) and of Zenaide, only child of Joseph, King of Naples 
and Spain. 


beautiful refined face like Manning at his best ; and then 
to the Inquisition, where Cardinal de Monaco was wait- 
ing to receive in rooms which were almost empty." 

" March 30. The dear Mother makes daily pro- 
gress. She has the sofa in her bedroom, and lies there 
a great deal in the sunny window. 

" I went to Mrs. Lockwood's theatricals, to which, as 
she said, ' all the people above the rank of a duchess 
were asked down to the letter M.' The play, L'Aieule, 
was wonderfully well done by Princess Radziwill, 
Princess Pallavicini, Princess Scilla, Duca del Gallo, 
and others, a most beautiful electric light being let in 
when the grandmother steals in to give the poison to 
the sleeping girl." 

" M ay 8. We leave Rome to-morrow leave it in 
a flush of summer glory, in a wealth unspeakable of 
foliage and flowers, orange blossoms scenting our stair- 
case, the sky deep blue. 

" All the last fortnight poor Emma Simpkinson 1 has 
been terribly ill a great anxiety to us as to what was 
best to be done for her, but we hope now that she may 
be moved to England, and I must go with my restored 
Mother, who is expanding like a flower in the sunshine. 

" This afternoon, at the crowded time, the young 
Countess Crivelli, the new Austrian Ambassadress, 
drove down the Corso. At the Porta del Popolo she 

1 Emma Simpkinson reached England before us, but was then 
rapidly waning heavenwards. She spent the last few weeks of her life 
at St. Leonards, where we had the great comfort of being able to cheer 
and watch over her, and she is buried in the cemetery at Ore. 


met her husband's horse without a rider. Much 
alarmed, she drove on, and a little farther on she found 
her husband's dead body lying in the road. She 
picked it up, and drove back down the Corso with the 
dead man by her side." 

Amongst the many English who spent this 
spring in Rome, I do not find any note, in my 
diaries, of Lord Hough ton, yet his dinners for 
six in the Via S. Basilio were delightful. His 
children were real children then, and his son, 
Robin, 1 a boy of wonderful promise. Lord 
Houghton was never satisfied with talking 
well and delightfully himself; his great charm 
was his evident desire to draw out all the good 
there was in other people. 


" Venice, May 10, 1868. We had a terribly hot 
journey by Spoleto and Ancona, and came on to Este. 
It is a long drive up from the station to the primitive 
little town close under the Euganean Hills, with the 
ruined castle where the first Guelph was born. The 
inn (La Speranza) is an old palace, and our sitting- 
room was thirty-four feet long. The country is luxuri- 
ance itself, covered with corn and flax, separated by 
rows of peach and fig trees, with vines leaping from 
tree to tree. I drove to Arqua, a most picturesque 
village in a hollow of the hills. In the little court of the 

1 Afterwards Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. 




church is Petrarch's tomb, of red Verona marble, and 
on the high ridge his house, almost unaltered, with old 
frescoes of his life, his chair, his chest, and his stuffed 
cat, shrunk almost to a weasel." 

"Augsburg, May 24. From Venice we saw Tor- 
cello the Mother, Lea, and I in a barca gliding over 
those shallow mysterious waters to the distant island 
and its decaying church, where we sat to draw near 


Attila's marble chair half buried in the rank growth 
of the mallows. 

" We came away by an early train to Verona, and 
drove in the afternoon to San Zenone, and then to the 
beautiful Giusti gardens for the sunset. Mother was 
able to climb up to the summer-house on the height, 
and the gardener gave us pinks and roses. 

1 From "Northern Italy." 


11 On the 24th we came on to Trent, a most attractive 
place, with an interesting cathedral, fine fountains, 
beautiful trees, and surroundings of jagged pink 
mountains tipped with snow. Cheating the Alps 
by crossing the Brenner, we went by Salzburg to 
Berchtesgaden, where we found quiet rooms with a 


splendid view of the snow-clad Watzmann. We were 
rowed down the Konigsee as far as the waterfall, Lea 
dreadfully frightened on the lake." 

From Augsburg we went to Oberwesel on 
the Rhine, where we were very happy in a 

1 From "Northern Italy." 


primitive hotel amid the vines and old timber- 
houses. On our second morning there, while 
I was drawing on the shore of the river, a 
strange and terrible presentiment came over me 
of some great misfortune, some overwhelming 
grief which was then taking place in England. 
I threw down my drawing things and hurried 
back to the hotel to my mother. " Never," I 
said, "have these sudden presentiments come 
to me without meaning. I am sure you will 
listen to me when I say that we ought to be 
in England directly." " Yes," she said, " I quite 
.believe it ; let us go at once ; " and then and 
there, in the hot morning, we walked down 
to the train. We travelled all night, and at 
daybreak we were in England. I confess that, 
as we travelled, the detailed impression which 
I had from my presentiment was wrong. I 
thought of what would have affected my 
mother most. I fancied that, as I was sitting 
on the Rhine shore, Arthur Stanley had 
died at Westminster. But John Gidman met 
us with our little carriage at Hastings, and 
as we drove up to Holmhurst he told me the 
dreadful truth that, at the very moment of 
my presentiment, my sister Esmeralda had 

I still feel the echo of that terrible anguish. 



"Sleep sweetly, dear one ; thou wilt wake at dawn." MOSCHUS. 

" Her mind was one of those pure mirrors from which the polluting 
breath passes away as it touches it." BISHOP HEBER. 

"Cette longue et cruelle maladie qu'on appelle la vie, est enfin 

" Let her pure soul . . . 
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show 
How to this portal every step I go." 


I THINK that I have not written anything con- 
cerning the life of my sister after we met her 
at Rome in the winter of 1865-66. Since that 
time she had been more incessantly engrossed 
by the affairs, and often very trivial interests, 
of the Roman Catholic Church, but without 
for a moment relaxing her affection and 
cordiality towards us. Great was my plea- 
sure in watching how, in spite of all religious 
differences, my mother became increasingly 

fond of her every time they met. I think it 



is William Penn who says, "The meek, the 
just, the pious, the devout, are all of one 

On leaving Rome in 1866, Esmeralda made it 
an object to visit the famous " Nun of Monza," 
Ancilla Ghizza, called in religion the " Madre 
Serafina della Croce." This nun had been 
founding a religious order at Monza, which 
was at first intended to be affiliated to the 
Sacramentarie on the Quirinal at Rome. She 
was supposed to have not only the "stigmata," 
but the marks of our Lord's scourging, to be 
gifted with a wonderful power and knowledge 
of the interior life, and to possess the gift of 
prophecy. She was summoned to Rome, and, 
after three years' noviciate at the Sacramentarie, 
she was permitted, in 1862, to return to Monza, 
and to begin her community, fifteen nuns being 
clothed at the same time. She used to dis- 
tribute little crosses which she declared to 
have been blessed by our Lord in person, and 
she was often in an ecstasy, in which it was 
alleged that her body became so light that she 
could be raised from the ground by a single 
hair of her head ! Concerning Serafina della 
Croce, Esmeralda had already received from 
a celebrated Italian ecclesiastic the follow- 


"Venezia, 3 Gennaio, 1864. Mi scusi se io cosl 
presto riprendo la penna, per offrirle il mio povero 
tentative di consolarla, sotto la forma di questa piccola 
croce, che io ebbi dall' Ancilla Ghizzi di Monza, e che 
e stata benedetta dalle mani stesse di Nostro Signore 
in una visione. Io potrei dirle molto di queste 
croci, ma ci vorrebbe troppo tempo. Cosl io le diro 
soltanto per affermare la sua opinione sopra la 
santita di questa serva di Dio, che io conosco qui un 
sacerdote che ando a vederla, e al quale il confessore 
dell' Ancilla delego la sua autorita, dicendogli che 
poteva commandarla ed interrogarla per un' ora, come 
se fosse lui stesso il suo confessore. Infatti, porta- 
tosi dall' Ancilla, senza che essa fosse stata avvertita 
di quest' accordo fra loro, il Sacerdote le diede mental- 
mente 1'obbedienza di unirsi con Dio in orazione, ed 
essa immediatamente and6 in estasi, e continu6 un' ora 
intera in questo stato, nel qual tempo egli le domando 
mentalmente varie cose in rapporto a certe persone che 
desiderebbero essere raccomandate alle sue preghiere, 
ed essa rispondeva al suo precetto mentale, raccoman- 
dogli ogni persona ed ogni domanda al Signore di 
viva voce, continuando cosl un dialogo non interrotto. 
Qualche volta per la soddisfazione di una terza 
persona che era presente, questo Sacerdote gli diceva 
all' orecchio il soggetto sopra il quale voleva schiari- 
mento. Debbo aggiungere che in questo stato il suo 
corpo e cosl leggiero che la poteva sollevare da terra 
per un solo del suoi capelli, come se non avesse piu 
nessun peso. Ho pure veduto dei manoscritti volumi- 
nosi del suo confessore pieni di maraviglie, e che dimo- 
strano che la sua familiarita colle cose e colle persone 


celesti e arrivata ad un tal punto, che si puo ben 
paragonare a tutto cio che si legge nelle vite dei santi. 
Anzi a me mi pare che supera tutto quel che io ho 
letto fin qui." 

Another intention of Esmeralda was to visit 
" Torchio," the inspired cobbler at Turin, and 
consult him on various subjects. This Torchio 
had had the most extraordinary visions of the 
Judgment ; but alas ! I neglected to write down 
the long verbal account which my sister gave 
me of her visit to him, and thus it is lost. I 
have only the following, written in crossing the 
Mont Cenis with an Asiatic bishop, to whom 
Esmeralda had offered a place in her carriage : 

" June 4, 1866. For three days running before 
leaving Rome, I had the visits of the venerable 
Monsignor Natale, and we talked of coming events 
in the political world. I went over from Pisa to 
Leghorn, and there I saw a very remarkable person 
called Suora Carolina. We went to Milan for one day, 
and from thence to Monza. I saw the bishop, and 
besought and entreated, and at last he gave permission, 
and I was the first to pass through the closed door 
of the convent, and to kneel and kiss the hand of the 
saint. Auntie went with me. I can never express 
what I felt. It was like seeing S. Francesco d'Assisi, 
and it seemed like a dream as, side by side, we walked 
through the cloisters and then went up into her cell : 


one so highly favoured ! it was too much happiness. 
All I had heard was nothing to the reality, and there 
was Auntie sitting in her cell, the other nuns stand- 
ing round. Her face was quite beautiful, quite 

"And then we returned to Milan and started for 
Turin, and there I went to see Torchio, the celebrated 
Torchio, as he sat on his basket and spoke as he was 
inspired. It was a wonderful and beautiful sermon, 
both in word and action. When he spoke of the 
Passion, one seemed to follow him to Calvary. He is 
a poor man living at the top of a very poor house, but 
he is an apostle." 

Esmeralda returned to London to Mrs. 
Thorpe's, but in the autumn she went north 
and paid visits to the Monteiths and Stourtons 
and to Lady Herries in Yorkshire. Lady 
Merries said afterwards that she liked to think 
of her as she so often saw her in the chapel 
at Everingham, praying, "oh, so fervently," for 
hours together. As her life became more 
absorbed in devotion and religious interests, 
she was conscious of the danger of neglecting 
earthly duties and sympathies. On August 
4, 1866, she wrote : 

" Let me walk in the presence of God without under- 
rating His gifts, for the underrating of God's gifts is 
one of the temptations which I am required to fight 


On September 8 she wrote : 

" Let me surrender entirely my individual will, to be 
completely united and absorbed in the will of Jesus 
Christ, then will the truths of Christianity become a 
fixed life in my soul. 

" The great impediment to the life of Jesus in the 
soul is the aiming at mediocrity in things pertaining to 
our Lord and to a spiritual life ; whereas our Master 
would have us aim at perfection, and bear in mind as a 
command His words, ' Be ye perfect.' " 

In August Esmeralda was thrown into real 
heart-mourning by the news which reached 
England of the death of "the Great Mother," 
Maria de Matthias. The following is from 
Pierina Rolleston, Superior of the Order of the 
Precious Blood in England : 

" My own dearest in the precious blood, I write in 
haste, and while I write my tears are flowing, because 
I have sad news to tell you and dear Mrs. Montgomery, 
who are both children of the Institute, and love our 
beloved Mother-General, who is in heaven, praying for 
us all. The following is a copy of a letter I received 
yesterday from Monsignor Talbot : ' I write to an- 
nounce to you the death of your Mother-General. 
She expired two days ago died as she lived, after 
giving examples of patience and resignation in the 
midst of her sufferings. To-morrow her funeral will 
be celebrated at the Church of SS. Vincenzo ed Anas- 
tasio, and I intend to attend. I do not think you need 


fear for the future of your Institute, because I think 
that the successor of your late Mother-General, though 
she may not be so saintly a person, will be equally 
able to carry on the business. I do not think you can 
be too grateful to Almighty God for having such 
friends as Monsignor Paterson and Miss Hare.' .... 
My dearest, I write in haste that you may receive all 
the news of our beloved Mother. Sister Carolina 
Longo, whom she named as her successor upon her 
death-bed, is a good clever nun, and she was Mother's 
dear child. She lived with Mother from a child of 
eight years old, and became a religious about the age 
of twenty-two. We have lost one of the dearest of 
mothers, but can look up to her in heaven, and I am 
sure she will help us in our work. . . . With fond love 
in the precious blood, I am always your most affection- 
ate in Christ, 


The winter of 1866-67 was chiefly passed 
by my sister at the house of Mrs. Alfred 
Montgomery at I field near Crawley, where 
Esmeralda and her aunt for many months 
shared in the housekeeping. For Esmeralda 
had been induced to regard Mrs. Montgomery 
as a religious martyr, and her impressionable 
nature was completely fascinated by her hostess. 
While at I field, a fatal web was drawn each 
day more closely by her Catholic associates, by 
which Esmeralda was induced to entrust large 


sums to her brother Francis for speculation 
upon the political prophecies of Madame de 
Trafford. Her unworldly nature was persuaded 
to consent to this means of (as Francis repre- 
sented) largely increasing her income, by the 
prospect which was held out to her of having 
more money to employ in assisting various 
religious objects, especially the establishment 
of the Servites in London, and the foundation 
of their church, for which she had promised 
Father Bosio, General of the Servites, to 
supply ^500, to be obtained either by collec- 
tions or otherwise, at the expiration of three 
years. Esmeralda never knew or had the 
faintest idea of the sum to which her specula- 
tions amounted. She was beguiled on from 
day to day by two evil advisers, and, her heart 
being in other things, was induced to trust and 
believe that her worldly affairs were in the 
hands of disinterested persons. The lists of 
her intended employments for the next day, so 
many of which remained amongst her papers, 
show how little of her time and attention was 
given to pecuniary matters. From them it is 
seen that a quarter of an hour allotted to the 
discussion of investments with her brother 
would be preceded by an hour spent in writing 
about the affairs of a French convent or the 


maintenance of a poor widow in Rome, and 
followed by an hour devoted to the interests 
of the Servites or some other religious body. 
There is no doubt that Esmeralda undertook 
far more than was good either for her health or 
for her mind ; each hour of every day was por- 
tioned out from the day before, and was fully 
and intensely occupied, especially when she 
was in London. If visitors or any unexpected 
circumstance prevented the task for which she 
had allotted any particular hour, she did not 
leave it on that account unfulfilled, but only 
detracted from the hours of rest. One thing 
alone, her daily meditation, she allowed nothing 
to interfere with. In the hours of meditation 
she found the refreshment which helped her 
through the rest of the day. "Our Lord re- 
quires of us that our souls should become a 
tabernacle for Him to dwell in," she wrote on 
February 2, 1867, " an< ^ ^e lamp lighted before 
it is the lamp of our affections." 

All through the summer of 1866, my brother 
William's health had been declining, and in the 
autumn, in the hope of benefit from the sea- 
breezes, he was moved to Brighton, which he 
never left. After Christmas day he was never 
able to leave the house. The small fortune 
of his pretty helpless wife had been lost in a 



bankruptcy, and they were reduced to a state 
of destitution in which they were almost devoid 
of the absolute necessaries of life. The follow- 
ing are extracts from William's letters to his 
sister at this time : 

"You cannot imagine how I miss your letters when 
you cease to write for any length of time. . . . Since 
Sunday I have been confined to my bed, having almost 
lost all use of my limbs. I could not possibly be 
moved to our sitting-room, being in so weak and ema- 
ciated a condition, and I fear I shall have to keep my 
bed all through this bitter cold weather. I am so 
miserably thin that it is with the greatest difficulty 
that I can contrive to sit or lie in any position. It is, 
however, God's will that it should be so, and I am 
enabled to say ( Thy will be done, O Lord.' . . . God 
has mercifully vouchsafed me time for repentance, and 
has brought me back to Himself, and made me one 
with Him by strengthening me with His own body, 
so that, dear sister, I feel supremely happy and at 
peace with all the world ; and should it please Almighty 
God to call me hence, I feel serene in His love, that 
He has graciously forgiven me all my sins, and that 
He will take me to Himself where there is no longer 
any pain or suffering. Father Crispin came on Wed- 
nesday to hear my confession, and on Thursday morn- 
ing he administered the most Blessed Sacrament to me. 
. . . Dear Edith has received 10 lately, which you 
may well suppose at this critical time was obtained 
with very great difficulty ; but all this money has been 
expended on my illness, and there is nothing left for 


the doctor's visits, medicine, or to pay the butcher, 
baker, washerwoman, milk, or coal bill. Yet it will 
not do to give up the doctor in my critical state, or to 
cease taking his medicine, or to deny myself the neces- 
sary restoratives ; if I did I must inevitably sink. Will 
you not, in compassion for my fallen state, consent to 
make me some sort of allowance during my illness to 
enable me to obtain what is necessary ? 

" Mr. Blackwood (you will remember ' Beauty Black- 
wood,' who married the Duchess of Manchester 1 ) has 
sent me a little book which he has just published 
'The Shadow and the Substance,' which he assures 
me is quite free from controversy, and he desires me to 
read it with especial care and attention, as being con- 
ducive to my comfort during hours of sickness and 

My sister immediately sent William all he 
required, when he again wrote : 

" How can I thank you sufficiently for so generously 
responding to my appeal in more senses than one, by 
sending me money to relieve the pressure of want, 
books to comfort me in hours of sickness, and wine to 
cheer and strengthen me ? ... Should I be spared, I 
must accept this illness as one of the greatest, indeed 
the greatest blessing I could possibly receive, for it has 
taught me my own nothingness, my all insufficiency, 
and it has drawn me from a sphere of sin into a sphere 
of grace ; it has caused me to despise the world and 

1 Afterwards Sir Arthur Blackwood, Secretary to the Post-Office. 
He died 1893. 


all its vanities, and has diverted my heart and whole 
being to Almighty God ; it has brought me into close 
communion with Him, strengthened by the graces of 
His Holy Sacraments, and has made me feel the blessed- 
ness of constant prayer. Oh, I would not change my 
present state for worlds ; and should it please Almighty 
God to call me from hence, I feel that He will receive 
me into everlasting peace. Father Crispin called last 
evening : he considers me so prostrate that he intends 
administering the sacrament of Extreme Unction. Pray 
for me ! I cannot express to you how rejoiced I am 
that we are again hand in hand together. You should 
not forget the days of our youth, we were always in- 
separable; we were then estranged from each other, 
and a very, very bitter time that was to me. I cannot 
say that I am any better." 

After the receipt of this letter my sister 
hurried to Brighton, and she was there when 
William died. On the nth of March she 
wrote to me : 

"We are here to be with William, to wait by his 
bedside during these last days of his illness. On 
Thursday night, and again on Friday night, it seemed 
as if the last hour was come, but there is now a slight, 
a very slight improvement, so that he may live a 
few days longer. Yesterday there came over him a 
momentary wish to recover, but it passed away, and 
his calm resignation was really unbroken and continues 
the same to-day. He does not murmur, though his 
sufferings must be terrible. . . . From time to time he 


asks me to read aloud a few lines of the ' Imitation of 
Christ,' but I can scarcely do it without breaking down 
as I look up and see those sunken cheeks and large 
glazed eyes fixed upon me with such a deep look of 
intense suffering." 

Two unexpected friends appeared to cheer 
William's last days. One was the young 
Duchess of Sutherland, who had been intimate 
with him as a child, and having never met him 
since the days when they both lived in the 
Maison Valin, heard accidentally of his illness 
at Brighton ; she came repeatedly to see him, 
and supplied him with many comforts, and 
even luxuries. The other was the well-known 
Miss Marsh, the authoress of the " Memorials 
of Hedley Vicars," the staunch Protestant, 
but liberal Christian. She happened to call 
to see the landlady of the lodging where he 
was, when, hearing of William's illness and 
poverty, she went constantly to visit him, and 
laying aside in the shadow of death all wish 
for controversy, read and prayed with him in 
the common sympathy of their Christian faith 
and trust. She wrote afterwards : 

" Blessed be God that I have no doubt that the dying 
friend in whom I have been so deeply interested was 
in Christ and is now with Him. We never spoke 
together of Romanism or Protestantism ; all I cared for 


was to persuade him, by the help of the Holy Ghost, to 
accept at once the offer of a free and present salva- 
tion through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, and 
through Him only : and to believe God's word that he 
that believeth on the Son of God hath everlasting life, 
because of His one sacrifice once offered for the sins of 
the whole world. And he did believe it, and false con- 
fidences faded away like shadows before the sunrise. 
' Jesus only ' became all his salvation and all his desire, 
and he passed into His presence with a radiant smile 
of joy. I was not with him when he died, but the 
hour of communing with his spirit that same evening 
was one of the sweetest I have spent on earth." 

My sister has left some notes of that which 
occurred after William's death : 

"After all was over, and when the room was 
decorated and the body laid out, Miss Marsh came to 
see him, and taking his dead hand, she placed a white 
camellia in it. Then kneeling by the side of the bed, 
she offered up the most beautiful prayer aloud, in 
which she described as in a picture our Blessed Lord 
and the angels receiving his soul. It was quite wonder- 
fully beautiful : there was only one thing she left out ; 
she never mentioned Our Blessed Lady; she placed 
the angels before our Lady. I was standing at the 
foot of the bed with a crucifix, and when she ceased 
praying, I said, ' But you have never spoken of Our 
Lady : I cannot let Our Lady be passed over.' And 
Miss Marsh was not angry; no, she only rose from 
her knees, and coming to me, she threw her arms 


round my neck and said, f Do not let us dispute upon 
this now ; we have one God and one Saviour in 
common, let us rest upon these,' and she came to see 
me afterwards when I was ill in London. 

" ' Know thou that courtesy is one of God's own 
properties, who sendeth His rain and His sunshine 
upon the just and the unjust out of His great courtesy ; 
and verily Courtesy is the sister of Charity, who 
banishes hatred and cherishes love.' Were not these 
the words of the dear S. Francis of Assisi ? 

" During William's illness Miss Marsh came every 
day with something for him, and quite stripped her 
own room to give him her own chair, and even her 
mattress. She was just the one person William wanted. 
Any dried-up person might have driven him back, but 
she was daily praying by his side, handsome, enthu- 
siastic, dwelling only on the love of God, and she 
helped him on till he began really to think the love of 
God the only thing worth living for. 

" ' O sister,' he said to me once, ' if it should please 
God that I should live, all my life would be given up 
to Him.' 

"The doctor who went up to him when he was 
told that he could not live many hours came down 
with tears upon his face. 'There must indeed be 
something in religion,' he said, ' when that young man 
can be so resigned to die.'" 

On the Saturday after William's death my 
sister wrote to us : 

" Now that dear William's last call has come, I feel 
thankful for his sake. The good priest who attended 


him in all the latter part of his illness wrote to me 
the day after his death that I could have no cause of 
anxiety for his everlasting welfare. It was a beauti- 
ful death, he was so happy, peaceful, and resigned. I 
had only left him a very short time when he again 
asked for Edith. She came up to his bedside, and 
then there seemed to come over William's face a 
bright light illuminating his countenance, and fixing his 
eyes upwards with a short sigh, he breathed his last. 
There was no suffering then, no agony. I had asked 
him if he feared death. ' No/ he said, and looked as 
if he wondered at the thought coming into my mind. 
He felt he had found the only true peace and happi- 
ness. He told me he wished to be buried at Kensal 
Green. His only anxiety was about poor Edith, and 
when I told him that I would do what lay in my power 
for her, he seemed satisfied, and never, I believe, gave this 
world another thought, but prepared to meet our Blessed 
Lord. That beautiful look of peace was on his face 
after death. Francis arrived too late to see him alive, 
but when he looked on William's face he said, 'Oh, 
sister, how beautiful ! ' The little room was draped 
with black and white. There he lay, and we were 
coming and going, and praying by the side of the 
open coffin. On Tuesday will be the funeral. On 
Monday the body will be removed to the Church of 
St. Mary of the Angels, Bayswater, where it will 
remain through the night, according to devout Roman 

After the funeral Esmeralda wrote : 

" Ifield Lodge, Crawley. When the long sad week 


was over, I felt all power of further exertion gone, and 
yet it seemed, as it does now, that for the soul God 
had taken to Himself, should the happiness of that 
soul not yet be perfected, prayers must be obtained, 
and that I must work on and on as long as life lasts. 
There is a feeling of longing to help in the mind of 
every Catholic for those departed. On Monday the 
24th the dear remains were moved from Brighton by 
the 6 P.M. train. Auntie and I went up by the same 
train from Three Bridges, and Francis came to the 
Victoria Station to meet the coffin; but such was the 
heavy feeling of sorrow, that, though we were on 
the platform at the same time, we did not see each 

" The next morning I went for Edith, and we arrived 
at the church early. The body had been placed in 
one of the side-chapels, and had remained there 
through the night. Before mass it was brought out, 
and remained before the high-altar during mass. 
There were many of William's friends present, and 
also Margaret Pole, now Mrs. Baker. The funeral 
procession formed at the door of the church. As 
the body was moved down the church, Edith and I 
followed after the officiating priests. I held Edith's 
hand tightly, and did not intend her to get into one 
of the mourning coaches, but suddenly, as the hearse 
moved slowly from the church door, she wrenched her 
hand from my grasp and was gone before I had time 
to speak. Four nuns went to say the responses at the 
grave. One was the nun who had nursed dear Mama 
through her last hours, and had stayed on with me in 
Bryanston Street. I returned from the church to the 


hotel, and there Auntie and Edith found me after the 
funeral was over. 

" The funeral service in the church was very solemn, 
but there was no weight of gloom or sadness. The 
strong feeling of the safety of the soul was such a 
consolation, that the end for which that soul had been 
created had been gained, and that if it were not then 
in heaven, the day would come soon, and could 
be hastened by the prayers said for it. His dear 
remains rest now under the figure of Our Lady of 
Sorrows, which he had so wished to see erected. 
I never looked forward to such a deathbed for 
William, where there would be so much peace and 
love of God, and now I can never feel grateful 
enough for such grace granted at the eleventh hour. 
May we all and each have as beautiful an end and 
close of life. Edith says, ' Oh I wish I could see what 
William saw when he looked up with that bright light 
on his face.' With that look all suffering is blotted 
out of poor Edith's mind, all her long watchings. 

" I can never feel grateful enough to Miss Marsh 
for all her kindness to William. It helped him to 
God, and it was very, very beautiful. ... I hope still 
to go to Rome for the funzione in June, and also to 
Hungary for the coronation of the Emperor." 

May 1867 was passed by my sister in 
London, where, by her astonishing cleverness 
and perseverance, she finally gained the last of 
her lawsuits, that for the family plate, when 
it had been lost in three other courts. Soon 


after, in spite of the great heat of the summer, 
Esmeralda started for Rome, to be present 
at the canonisation of the Japanese martyrs, 
paying a visit to Madame de Trafford on the 
way. She wrote to me : 

" When I first went to Beaujour, I was afraid to tell 
Madame de Trafford that I intended to go to Rome. 
' Mais ou allez vous done, ma chere ? ' said Madame de 
Trafford. ' Mais, Madame, je vais ... en voyage.' 
'Vous allez en voyage, $a je comprends, mais $a ne 
rdpond pas a ma question : vous allez en voyage, mais 
il faut aller quelque part, ou allez vous done ? '- 
' Mais, Madame, vous verrez de mon retour.' ' Mais 
ou allez vous done, ma chere ? dites-moi, ou allez 
vous?' 'Jevaisa . . . Rome !' Madame de Trafford 
sprang from her chair as I said this, and exclaimed, 
' Rome, Rome, ce mot de Rome, Rome, Rome . . . et 
vous allez a Rome . . . moi aussi je vais & Rome,' 
and she went with us. From the time that Madame 
de Trafford determined to go, Auntie made no opposi- 
tion to our going, and was quite satisfied." 

The journey to Rome with Madame de 
Trafford was full of unusual incidents. The 
heat was most intense, and my sister suf- 
fered greatly from it. At Turin she was so 
ill that she thought it impossible to proceed, 
but Madame de Trafford insisted upon her 
getting up and going on. Whilst they were 


still en route Madame de Trafford telegraphed 
to Rome for a carriage and every luxury to be 
in readiness. She also telegraphed to Pisa to 
bid M. Lamarre, the old family cook of Parisani, 
go to Rome to prepare for them. My sister 
telegraphed to Monsignor Talbot to have places 
reserved for the ceremonies, &c. All the last 
part of the way the trains were crowded to the 
greatest possible degree, hundreds of pilgrims 
joining at every station in Umbria and the 
Campagna, for whom no places were reserved, 
so that the train was delayed six or seven hours 
behind its time, and the heat was increased, by 
the overcrowding, to the most terrible pitch. 
My sister wrote : 

" In the carriage with us from Florence was a young 
Florentine noble, a Count Gondi, all of whose relations 
I knew. He asked me what I should do after the 
canonisation. ' (^a depend, M. le Comte, si on attaquera 
Rome.' ' Mais, certainement on 1'attaquera.' 'Eh bien, 
done je reste.' 'Mais vous restez, Mademoiselle, si 
on attaque Rome.' ' Oui, certainement.' ' Et vous, 
Madame,' said Count Gondi, turning to Madame de 
Trafford. 'Mais si on attaque Rome,' said Madame 
de Trafford, 'je ferais comme Mademoiselle Hare, je 
reste, bien sure.' His amazement knew no bounds. 

"When we arrived at Rome, I was so afraid that 
Madame de Trafford might do something very extra- 
ordinary that I made her sleep in my room, and slept 


myself in the little outer room which we used to call 
the library, so that no one could pass through it to 
my room without my knowing it. The morning after 
we arrived she came into my room before I was 
up. I said, 'Mais, Madame, c'etait a moi de vous 
rendre cette visite ? ' ' Laissez done ces frivolite's,' 
said Madame de Trafford, 'nous ne sommes pas ici 
pour les frivolites comme cela : parlons du serieux ; 
commenc^ons.' " 

The ceremonies far more than answered my 
sister's expectations. She entered St. Peter's 
with Madame de Trafford by the Porta Sta. 
Marta, and they saw everything perfectly. She 
met the Duchess Sora in the church, radiant 
with ecstasy over what she considered so 
glorious a day for Catholicism. " I knew you 
would be here," said the Duchess ; "you could 
not have been away." The meeting was only 
for a moment, and was their last upon earth. 
" When the voices of the three choirs swelled 
into the dome," wrote Esmeralda, "then I felt 
what the Pope expressed in words, ' the triumph 
of the Church has begun.' When we first went 
into St. Peter's, Giacinta, 1 who hady^// I should 
be there, was waiting for me. ' Eccola, la figlia,' 
she said, *io 1'aspettava.' ' 

Afterwards Giacinta came to see my sister at 

1 "The Saint of St. Peter's." See vol. ii. p. 429. 


the Palazzo Parisani. " I shall never forget the 
meeting of those two souls," wrote Esmeralda, 
" when Giacinta first saw Madame de Trafford. 
They had never heard of one another before : 
I had never mentioned Giacinta to Madame de 
Trafford, and she had never heard of Madame 
de Trafford, but they understood one another 
at once. Madame de Trafford passed through 
the room while Giacinta was talking to me, and 
seeing only a figure in black talking, she did 
not stop and passed on. Giacinta started up 
and exclaimed, ' Chi e?' ' Una signora,' I 
said. ' Quell o se vede,' said Giacinta, 'ma 
quello non e una risposta chi e ? ' and when 
I told her, * O vede un' anima,' she exclaimed. 
Madame de Trafford then did what I have 
never known her do for any other person ; she 
looked into the room and said, ' Faites la 
passer dans ma chambre,' and we went in, and 
the most interesting conversation followed." 

As she returned through Tuscany, Esmeralda 
had her last meeting with her beloved Madame 
Victoire, who had then no presentiment of the 
end. At Paris she took leave of Madame de 
Trafford, and returned to London, where she 
for the first time engaged a permanent home 
5 Lower Grosvenor Street. The furnishing 
of this house was the chief occupation of the 


next two months, though Esmeralda began by 
depositing in the empty rooms a large crucifix 
which Lady Lothian had given her, and 
saying, " Now the house is furnished with all 
that is really important, and Providence will 
send the rest." A room at the top of the 
house was arranged as an oratory ; an altar 
was adorned with lace, flowers, and images ; a 
lamp burned all night long before the crucifix, 
and if Esmeralda could not sleep, she was in 
the habit of retiring thither and spending long 
hours of darkness in silent prayer. There also 
she kept the vigil of "the Holy Hour." Early 
every morning the Catholic household in Gros- 
venor Street was awakened by the sharp clang 
of the prayer-bell outside the oratory door. 

I went to stay with my sister in August for 
a few days. Esmeralda was at this time look- 
ing very pale and delicate, but not ill. Though 
the beauty of her youth had passed away, and 
all her troubles had left their trace, she was 
still very handsome. Her face, marble pale, 
was so full of intelligence and expression, 
mingled with a sort of sweet pathos, that many 
people found her far more interesting than 
before, and all her movements were marked by 
a stately grace which made it impossible for 
her to pass unobserved. Thus she was when 


I last saw her, pale, but smiling her farewell, 
as she stood in her long black dress, with her 
heavy black rosary round her neck, leaning 
against the parapet of the balcony outside the 
drawing-room window. 

All through the winter Esmeralda wrote 
very seldom. She was much occupied with 
her different books, some of which seemed 
near publication. " The Study of Truth," upon 
which she had been occupied ever since 1857, 
had now reached such enormous dimensions, 
that the very arrangement of the huge pile of 
MS. seemed almost impossible. A volume 
of modern American poetry was to be brought 
out for the benefit of the Servites, and was 
also in an advanced state ; yet her chief in- 
terest was a collection of the " Hymns of the 
Early Church," obtained from every possible 
source, but chiefly through the aid of foreign 
monasteries and convents. Upon this subject 
she kept up an almost daily correspondence 
with the Padre Agostino Morini of the Servites, 
who was her chief assistant, especially in pro- 
curing the best translations, as the intention was 
that the original Latin hymn should occupy 
one page and that the best available translation 
should in every case be opposite to it : many 
hundreds of letters remain of this correspond- 


ence. In the autumn Esmeralda was again 
at I field Lodge, where she was persuaded 
into a wild scheme for building a town for 
the poor at Crawley. Land was bought, mea- 
surements and plans were taken, and a great 
deal of money was wasted, but Esmeralda for- 
tunately withdrew from the undertaking before 
it was too late. 

But the state of excitement and speculation 
in which she was now persuaded to live had 
a terrible effect upon Esmeralda, who had con- 
tinued in a weak and nervous state ever since 
her hurried journey to Rome. She now found 
it difficult to exist without the stimulus of daily 
excitement, and she added one scheme and 
employment to another in a way which the 
strongest brain could scarcely have borne up 
against. On her return to London she threw 
herself heart and soul into what she called a 
scheme for the benefit of the " poor rich." She 
remembered that when she was herself totally 
ruined, one of her greatest trials was to see her 
mother suffer from the want of small luxuries 
in the way of food to which she had been ac- 
customed, and that though their little pittance 
allowed of what was absolutely necessary, 
London prices placed chickens, ducks, cream, 
and many other comforts beyond their reach. 

VOL, in. .R 


Esmeralda therefore arranged a plan by which 
she had over twice a week, from certain farms 
in Normandy, large baskets containing chickens 
(often as many as eighty at a time), ducks, geese, 
eggs, apples, and various other articles. The 
prices of the farm produce in Normandy were 
so low, that she was able, after paying the 
carriage, to retail the contents of her hampers 
to the poor families she was desirous of assist- 
ing, besides supplying her own house, at a cost 
of not more than half the London prices. 
Many families of "poor rich" availed them- 
selves of this help and were most grateful for 
it, but of course the trouble involved by so 
many small accounts, with the expenditure of 
time in writing notes, &c., about the disposi- 
tion of her poultry was enormous. It was in 
the carrying out of this scheme that Esmeralda 
became acquainted with a person called Mrs. 
Dunlop, wife of a Protestant, but herself a 
Roman Catholic. Esmeralda never liked Mrs. 
Dunlop ; on the contrary, she both disliked and 
distrusted her ; but owing to her interesting 
herself in the same charities, she inevitably saw 
a great deal of her. 

During the winter an alarming illness attacked 
my brother Francis. He was my brother by 
birth, though I had seldom even seen him, 


and scarcely ever thought about him. Looking 
back now, in the distance of years, I wonder 
that my Mother and I never spoke of him ; but 
he was absolutely without any part in our lives, 
and we never did, till this winter, when my 
sister mentioned his refusing to go to live with 
her in Grosvenor Street, which she had hoped 
that he would do when she took the house, and 
of his putting her to the unnecessary expense of 
paying for lodgings for him. Here he caught 
cold, and one day, unexpectedly, Dr. Squires 
came to tell Esmeralda that he considered him 
at the point of death. She flew to his bedside 
and remained with him all through the night. 
As she afterwards described it, she " could not 
let him die, and she breathed her life into his : 
she was willing to offer her life for his." 

After this Esmeralda wrote to us (to Rome) 
that the condition of Francis was quite hopeless, 
and that her next letter must contain the news 
of his death. What was our surprise, therefore, 
when the next letter was from Francis himself 
(who had never written to us before), not merely 
saying that he was better, but that he was 
going to be married 'immediately to a person 
with whom he had long been acquainted. At 
the time of this marriage, Esmeralda went 
away into Sussex, and afterwards, when she 


returned to London, she never consented to 
see Mrs. Francis Hare. 

My sister s cheque-books of the last year of 
her life show that during that year alone her 
brother Francis had received ^900 from her, 
though her income at the most did not exceed 
,800. He had also persuaded Esmeralda to 
take a house called " Park Lodge " in Padding- 
ton, with an acre and a half of garden. The 
rent was certainly low, and the arrangement, as 
intended by Esmeralda, was that her brother 
should live in two or three rooms of the 
house, and that the rest should be let furnished. 
But tenants never came, and Francis lived in 
the whole of the house, after furnishing it ex- 
pensively and sending in the bills to his sister, 
who paid them in her fear lest anxiety about 
money matters might make him ill again. 

At the end of March Esmeralda received 
a letter from Madame de Trafford, of which 
she spoke to Mrs. Dunlop. She said, 
" Madame de Trafford has written to me in 
dreadful distress. She says she sees me in 
a very dark, narrow place, where no one can 
ever get at me, and where no one will ever 
be able to speak to me any more." Esme- 
ralda laughed as she told this, and said she 
supposed it referred to the prison to which 


Augustus said she would have to go for her 
extravagance ; but it was the grave of which 
Madame de Trafford spoke. 

In March, Esmeralda talked to many of her 
friends of her plans for the future. She said 
that in consequence of the expense of keeping 
up the house, she should be obliged to part 
with Grosvenor Street, and that she should go 
abroad to Rome, and eventually to Jerusalem. 
She did more than merely form the plan of 
this journey. She had the dresses made 
which she intended to wear in the East, and 
for three nights she sat up arranging all her 
papers, and tying up the letters of her different 
friends in separate parcels, so that they might 
more easily be returned to them. To Mary 
Laffam, her then maid, who assisted her in 
this, she said, " Mary, I am going on a very, 
very long journey, from which I may never 
return, and I wish to leave everything arranged 
behind me." 

In the beginning of May Esmeralda went 
with her aunt to spend three weeks in Sussex. 
After she returned to Grosvenor Street, she 
was very ill with an attack like that from which 
she had suffered at Dijon several years before. 
Having been very successfully treated then in 
France, she persuaded her aunt to obtain the 


direction of a French doctor. The remedy 
which this doctor administered greatly increased 
the malady. This was on Tuesday igth. 

On Thursday 2ist my sister was so much 
weakened and felt so ill, that she dismissed the 
French doctor, and sent again for her old 
doctor, Squires, who came at once. He was 
much shocked at the change in her, and 
thought that she had been terribly mistreated, 
but he was so far from being alarmed, that 
he saw no reason why her house should not 
be let, as arranged, on the following Tuesday, 
to Mademoiselle Nilsson, the Swedish song- 
stress, and said that the change would do her 

About this time, by Esmeralda's request, 
my aunt wrote to tell Madame de Trafford of 
the illness, but she did not then express any 
alarm. On Saturday the good and faithful 
Mrs. Thorpe 1 saw Esmeralda, and was much 
concerned at the change in her. She remained 
with her for some time, and bathed her face 
with eau-de-Cologne. Esmeralda then took 
both Mrs. Thorpe's hands in hers, and said no 
one could do for her as she did. Mrs. Thorpe 
was so much alarmed at Esmeralda's manner, 
which seemed like a leave-taking, that she 

1 The maid of our old friend Mrs. Chambers of Hodsock Priory. 


went down to our Aunt Eleanor and tried to 
alarm her ; but she said that as long as the 
house could be let on Tuesday to Mademoiselle 
Nilsson, the doctor must be perfectly satisfied, 
and there could not possibly be anything to 

Sunday passed without any change except 
that, both then and on Saturday, whenever 
her brother Francis was mentioned, Esmeralda 
became violently agitated, screamed, and said 
that he was on no account to be admitted. 

Father Galway was away, but on Monday 
Esmeralda sent for Father Eccles, and from 
him she received the Last Sacraments. When 
I asked my aunt afterwards if this did not 
alarm her, she said, " No, it did not, because 
Esmeralda was so nervous and so dreadfully 
afraid of dying without the Last Sacraments, 
that whenever she felt ill she always received 
them, and the doctor still assured her that all 
was going on well." 

That night (Monday, May 25), a nun of 
the Misericorde sat up in the room. Aunt 
Eleanor went to bed as usual. At half-past 
four in the morning she was called. The 
most mysterious black sickness had come on, 
and could not be arrested. Dr. Squires, sum- 
moned in haste, says that he arrived exactly 


as a clock near Grosvenor Square struck 
five. He saw at once that the case was quite 
hopeless, still for three hours he struggled to 
arrest the malady. At the end of that time, 
Esmeralda suddenly said, "Dr. Squires, this 
is very terrible, isn't it?" "Yes," he replied, 
throwing as much meaning as possible into his 
voice, " it is indeed most terrible." Upon this 
Esmeralda started up in the bed and said, 
"You cannot possibly mean that you think 
I shall not recover?" Dr. Squires said, "Yes, 
I am afraid it is my duty to tell you that you 
cannot possibly recover now." " But I do not 
feel ill," exclaimed Esmeralda; "this sickness 
is very terrible, but still I do not feel ill."" I 
cannot help that," answered Dr. Squires, " but 
I fear it is my duty to tell you that it is quite 
impossible you can live." 

"It was then," said her doctor, "that her 
expression lost all its anxiety. Death had 
no terror for her. She was almost radiant." 
The serenity of her countenance remained un- 
changed, and to her last moment she was as 
one preparing for a festival. 

After a pause she said, "Tell me how long you 
think it possible that I should live." Dr. Squires 
said, "You might live two days, but it is quite 
impossible that you should live longer than 


that." She at once asked for writing materials, 
and with a firm hand, as if she were well, she 
wrote a telegraphic despatch bidding Madame 
de Trafford to come to her at once. (The office 
was then closed, and when it was opened, it 
was already too late to send the despatch.) 
Then Dr. Squires kindly and wisely said, 
" I fear you have little time to lose, and if you 
wish to make any changes in your will, you 
had better make them at once." My sister 
answered, "Oh, I must alter everything. I never 
thought it possible that I should die before my 
aunt, and I wish to leave things so that my 
death will make no difference to her." The 
doctor, seeing a great change coming on, was 
afraid to leave the room even to get a sheet 
of paper, and he wrote upon a scrap of paper 
which he picked up from the floor. My sister 
then made a very simple will, leaving everything 
to her (Protestant) aunt, Miss Paul, except her 
interest in Park Lodge and a chest of plate 
which she left to Francis, and her claims to 
a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1 which she 
left to me. 

When Esmeralda had dictated the page con- 

1 She showed her clearness of mind by mentioning this picture, which 
she had not seen for years ; but much trouble afterwards resulted from 
this clause in her will. 


taining these bequests, her doctor wisely made 
her sign it in the presence of her servants 
before she proceeded to dictate anything else. 
Thus the first portion of her will is valid, but 
before she had come to the end of another page 
containing small legacies to the Servites, to 
the Nuns of the Precious Blood, &c., the power 
of signature had failed, and it was therefore 

Esmeralda then said almost playfully, " You 
had better send for the Nuns of the Precious 
Blood, for they would never forgive me, even 
after all is over, if they had not been sent for," and 
a maid went off in a cab to fetch the Abbess 
Pierina. It was then that a priest arrived from 
Farm Street to administer extreme unction, 
and Dr. Squires, seeing that he could do no- 
thing more, and that my sister was already past 
observing who was present, went away. 

The Abbess Pierina says that she arrived 
at the house about nine o'clock, and saw at 
once that Esmeralda was dying. A priest 
was praying by the bedside. She remained 
standing at the foot of the bed for about ten 
minutes, then she went up to Esmeralda, who 
said, " I am dying." A few minutes afterwards, 
in a loud and clear voice, she called "Auntie," 
and instantly fell back and died. 


Thus the day which she looked for as her 
Sabbath and high day came to her, and she 
passed to the rest beyond the storm beyond 
the bounds of doubt or controversy to the 
company of those she justly honoured, and 
of some whom she never learnt to honour 
here, in the many mansions of an all-reconciling 
world. Let us not look for the living amongst 
the dead. She exchanged her imperfect com- 
munion with God here for its full fruition in 
the peace of that Sabbath which knows no 

During the whole of the last terrible hours 
our poor deaf aunt was in the room, but she 
had sunk down in her terror and anguish upon 
the chair which was nearest the door as she 
came in, and thence she never moved. She 
never had strength or courage to approach 
the bed : she saw all that passed, but she 
heard nothing. 

Soon after all was over, the Abbess Pierina 
came down to my aunt, and revealed what 
none of her family had known before that 
Esmeralda had long been an Oblate Sister of 
the Precious Blood, and she begged leave to 
dress her in the habit of the Order. All the 
furniture of the room was cleared away or 


draped with white, and the bed was left stand- 
ing alone, surrounded night and day by tall 
candles burning in silver sconces, with a statue 
of " Our Lady of Sorrows " at the head, and 
at the foot the great crucifix from the oratory. 
Esmeralda was clothed in a long black dress, 
which she had ordered for her journey to 
Jerusalem, but had never worn, and round 
her waist was the scarlet girdle of the Precious 
Blood. On her head was a white crape cap 
and a white wreath, as for a novice nun. 

As soon as Aunt Eleanor was able to think, 
she sent for her sister, Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, who 
arrived at 1 1 A.M. She, as a strong Protestant, 
said that she could never describe how terrible 
the next three days were to her. All day 
long a string of carriages was ceaselessly pour- 
ing up the street, and a concourse of people 
through the house, nuns of the Precious Blood 
being posted on the different landings to show 
them where to go. Each post brought letters 
from all kinds of people they had never heard 
of before, asking to have anything as a me- 
morial, even a piece of old newspaper which 
Esmeralda had touched. 

On the day after we arrived at Holmhurst 
from Germany (Sunday 3ist), I went up to 
try to comfort my broken-hearted aunt at the 


house in Grosvenor Street. The rooms in 
which I had last seen Esmeralda looked all 
the more intensely desolate from being just 
finished, new carpets and chintzes everywhere, 
only the last pane of the fernery in the back 
drawing-room not yet put in. My aunt came 
in trembling all over. It was long before she 
was able to speak : then she wrung her hands. 
"Oh, it was so sudden it was so sudden," 
she said ; and then she became more collected, 
and talked for hours of all that had passed. 
Those present said that for the whole of the 
first day she sat in a stupor, with her eyes 
fixed on vacancy, and never spoke or moved, 
or seemed to notice any one who went in 
or out. 

The coffin was already closed, and stood in 
the middle of the room covered with a white 
pall, and surrounded by burning candles and 
vases of flowers. Upon the coffin lay the 
crucifix which both Italima and Esmeralda held 
in their hands when they were dying. Near 
it was the bed, with the mark where the head 
had lain still unremoved from the pillow. 

On Monday afternoon there was a long 
wearying family discussion as to whether the 
remains were to be taken to Kensal Green in 
the evening, to remain throughout the night in 


the cemetery chapel. Francis insisted that it 
should be so. Our Aunt Fitz-Gerald declared 
that if it was done she would not go to the 
funeral, as she would not follow nothing. I 
agreed with Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, and the nuns of 
the Precious Blood were most vehement that 
the body should not be removed. Eventually, 
however, Francis carried his point. At 9 P.M. 
we all went up for the last time to the room, 
still draped like a chapel, where the coffin lay, 
covered with fresh flowers, with the great cruci- 
fix still standing at the foot between the lighted 
candles. Then what remained of Esmeralda 
was taken away. 

The next day (June 2) was the funeral. At 
the cemetery the relations who came from 
the house were joined by Mr. Monteith, Lady 
Lothian, Lady Londonderry, Lady Georgiana 
Fullerton, the Abbess Pierina, and all the nuns 
of the Precious Blood, with several nuns of the 

The chapel was full of people, but it is very 
small, and a very small part of it is used for 
seats. The larger part was spread with a rich 
crimson carpet, in the midst of which rose a 
kind of catafalque, upon which lay the coffin, 
covered with a long purple velvet pall, em- 
broidered in golden letters " May all the holy 


saints and angels receive her soul." Round 
this were six candles burning in very tall brass 
candlesticks. After the priest had gone round 
with the holy water and incense, a door at the 


east end of the church was thrown open and 
the pall removed, when the light poured in 
upon the coffin and its silver ornaments and 


the large silver cross lying upon it. Then we 
all passed out round the shrubberies to the 
grave, where the vault was opened just behind 
the beautiful seated statue of " Our Lady of 
Sorrows" under the cross, which Esmeralda 
had herself erected. Upon the coffin was en- 

E. de M. 

(Enfant de Marie), 

Oblate of the Order of the Precious Blood. 

Born October 9, 1832. 

Died May 26, 1868. 

As the priest said all the leading sentences, 
the nuns, with clear voice, sang the responses. 
The whole service occupied nearly an hour 
and a half. We drove home in total silence : 
Aunt Fitz-Gerald led Auntie into the desolate 

Thus was my sweet sister Esmeralda taken 
from us being removed from the evil to 

" Souls of the Holy Dead ! 
Though fancy whispers thus to musing hearts, 
We would not call ye back, whence ye are fled, 

To take your parts 
In the old battle-strife ; or break 

With our heartache 
The rest which ye have won and in Christ's presence take," 



" Glory to Thee in Thine Omnipotence, 

Who dost dispense, 

As seemeth best to Thine unerring will 
The lot of victory still ; 

Edging sometimes with might the sword unjust, 
And bowing to the dust 
The rightful cause, that so much seeming ill 
May Thine appointed purposes fulfil." 


"Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden." 

Swiss Inscription. 

" If you your lips would keep from slips, 
Of five things have a care : 
To whom you speak, of whom you speak, 
And how, and when, and where." 

Old Distich. 

AT eleven o'clock on the morning of my sister's 
death, our aunt, Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, arrived in 
Grosvenor Street. She wrote to me after- 
wards : 

" When Eleanor sent for me, after I recovered the 
shock, I went immediately to Grosvenor Street, and 
the first thing I asked before going up to Eleanor was, 

VOL. III. 273 S 



1 Is Mr. Hare (Francis) upstairs ? ' The maid made 
answer, 'Oh, no; Miss Hare would not hear of seeing 
him, and forbade us to let him enter the house, declar- 
ing that he had her death to answer for.' I could not 
believe this statement, and I called another servant 
into the dining-room, who repeated exactly the same 
thing, saying also that things had taken place in that 
house which were fearful, and that they were afraid 
of their lives. / was the innocent cause of Francis 
coming to sleep in the house, as I did not think it was 
right that Eleanor should be left alone with the dead 
body of your sister. I did not know till the following 
morning, when the servants told me, that people had 
been walking about the house the whole night, and 
that the Rev. Mother (Pierina) had forbid them to 
leave the kitchen, hear what they would." 1 

Upon this, and all succeeding nights until 
the funeral, the three maids persistently refused 
at night to go upstairs, saying that they had 
seen a spirit there, and they remained all through 
the night huddled up together in a corner of 
the kitchen. By day even they manifested the 
greatest terror, especially Mary Laffam, the 
lady's-maid, who started and trembled when- 
ever she was spoken to, and who entreated to 
be allowed to go out when she heard the lawyer 
was coming, " for fear he should ask her any 

1 Letter of Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, which would have been used at Guild- 
ford had the trial proceeded. 


questions." If they had the opportunity, they 
always made mysterious hints of poison, and 
of Esmeralda's death having been caused by 
unnatural means. To the Rev. Mother Pierina, 
Mary Laffam said at one time that Miss Hare 
had told her she knew that she should die of 
poison. 1 All the servants constantly repeated 
to the Rev. Mother their conviction that Miss 
Hare was poisoned. They talked a great deal, 
especially Mary Laffam, who horrified the 
Abbess by saying that Miss Hare had herself 
said in her last moments, " I am poisoned and 
I die of poison." In consequence of all that 
the servants had said to Mrs. Fitz-Gerald of 
their certain conviction that my sister had been 
poisoned, she was most anxious, before my 
return to England, for a post-mortem examina- 
tion, but Francis violently opposed this, and 
he carried his point. 

The opinion that my sister's death was 
caused by poison was shared by many of those 
who came to see her after death. They could 
not but recollect that though Dr. Squires then 
said he believed her to have died of ulcera- 
tion of the intestines, up to the day before the 

1 Statement of Pierina to Miss Stanley. 

8 Statement made by Pierina to Monsignor Paterson, and repeated 
by him before the trial to Miss Stanley and my solicitor. 


death he had said that she might be removed, 
that the house might be let, and had suggested 
no such impression. For two days after death, 
black blood continued to stream from the 
mouth, as is the case from slow corrosive 
poison, and three eminent physicians, on hear- 
ing of the previous symptoms and the after 
appearances (Dr. Hale, Sir Alexander Taylor, 
and Dr. Winslow), gave it as their opinion 
that those were the usual symptoms and 
appearances induced by corrosive poison. 
Mrs. Baker (Marguerite Pole) wrote to me 
on June 24 : " The idea of poison is the one 
I formed the first moment I saw the body, 
as for some years I was practically versed in 
medicine, and I was at a loss how to account 
for various appearances in a natural way 
i.e., from illness." 

When I arrived at the house on May 31 
(the death having taken place on the 26th), 
I found all its inmates agitated by the various 
reports which were going about. Mrs. Fitz- 
Gerald was full of a dreadful message which 
she believed to have been given by my dying 
sister to the Abbess Pierina. "When I am 
dead, go to my brother Francis, and tell him 
that he was the cause of my death, and that he 
will have to answer for it." This message was 


also repeated to me by Mrs. Baker and by 
Mrs. William Hare, and was always spoken 
of as having been given to the Rev. Mother 
herself. On each occasion on which I heard 
it spoken of, I said that the message had much 
better not be given to Francis, as he was in 
such a weak state of health that it might do 
him serious injury ; and that probably when 
my sister gave it, she was in a state of semi- 
delirium, brought on by her extreme weakness. 
I entirely declined to question the servants, 
consequently I heard nothing directly from 
them, only their words as repeated by Mrs. 
Fitz-Gerald, and the many persons to whom 
the Mother Pierina had related them. 

I never had any interview with or heard 
anything directly from Pierina herself. The 
reason of this was that, three days after the 
death, she had a violent scene with Mrs. 
Fitz-Gerald, who had intercepted her in the 
act of carrying off two large heavy silver 
candelabra from the oratory, and some valu- 
able point-lace, which she had ripped off the 
altar-cloth and concealed in her pocket. She 
also took away a quantity of small articles 
(rosaries, crucifixes, &c.), which were after- 
wards returned with the more valuable articles 
by order of Monsignor Paterson, who wrote 


to express his extreme grief and annoyance 
at her conduct. My own impression still is 
that Pierina was a simple and devout character, 
who would not willingly do anything she be- 
lieved to be wrong, but that she was really 
convinced (as she said) that it was a duty to 
take away these things, which had been dedi- 
cated to the service of a Roman Catholic altar, 
in order to prevent their being applied to 
secular uses in a Protestant household. After 
this, however, which occurred before my ar- 
rival, the Abbess Pierina was never allowed to 
return to the house, so that I never saw her. 

Immediately after the death, all the small 
articles in my sister's room had been hastily 
removed, in order that the room might be 
draped with white, and to give it as much as pos- 
sible the appearance of a chapel. On the day 
before the funeral, I saw Mrs. Fitz-Gerald, who 
was in the inner drawing-room, after opening 
a davenport and looking into a blotting-book, 
suddenly burst into tears. " Oh," she said, " the 
whole mystery is revealed now ; it is all quite 
plain ; you may see what it was that killed your 
sister," and she held up a letter from Francis, 
written on the Friday evening before her death 
a cruel letter, telling her in the harshest 
terms that she was totally ruined, that she 


might sell her house and her plate, and all 
else that she possessed, for she had nothing 
whatever left to live upon ; but that, as he 
did not wish her to starve, she and her aunt 
might come to live with his wife. This letter 
Esmeralda must have received on Saturday 
morning, soon after writing the affectionate 
note to Francis, which was read afterwards at 
Guildford in proof of the happy terms on 
which she was living with him. But it was 
her peculiar habit, when she was ill or suffering, 
to put letters aside, whoever they might be 
from, and not to read them till she felt better ; 
it is therefore quite possible that she did not 
open this letter till Monday, when it gave the 
fatal blow. This was my impression at the time, 
and then and always afterwards, when others 
spoke of poison, I said, "There were strange 
signs of poison, and many people think she 
was poisoned, but it is my firm conviction that 
she did not die of poison, but of a broken heart 
a heart broken by her brother Francis." 

On the 6th of June I spent the whole morn- 
ing in the office of my sister's solicitor examin- 
ing accounts and papers, and the afternoon at 
Coutts' Bank to find out what was left. The 
result of the investigation was to show that in 
October my sister possessed 12,000 clear, 


besides a great quantity of plate, diamonds, and 
other valuables, and the house in Grosvenor 
Street paid for and clear from debt, as well as 
the property in the Palazzo Parisani at Rome. 
At the time of her death she possessed, inte- 
rest and principal combined, ^216, and debts 
to a considerable amount, while the diamonds 
and plate seemed to have disappeared without 
leaving a trace behind them. 

Several days afterwards, while I was taking 
an envelope out of the envelope-box on the 
table, I saw a bit of bluish paper sticking up 
between the partitions of the box. I absently 
poked it up with a paper-knife, and then found 
that it was a pawn-ticket from Attenborough for 
120 upon diamonds. Turning out a quantity 
of old Times from a cupboard, I afterwards 
found there a pawn-ticket for i oo upon plate ; 
later I found a third ticket for ^82 upon some 
diamond earrings. Attenborough told me that 
Francis had brought his sister there at different 
times and placed the plate and diamonds in 

Whilst I was still in Grosvenor Street, many 
of my sister's Catholic friends came to see me. 
Mrs. Montgomery came three times. I had 
never liked her, and had greatly deprecated my 
sister's intimacy with her, but in the presence 


of what I believed to be a common grief I could 
not refuse to receive her, and she was appar- 
ently most sympathising and even affectionate. 
The second time she came she sat by me on 
the sofa and spoke of Esmeralda's death as 
making a blank in her whole future life. She 
said what a comfort and happiness it would 
be to her if she were ever able to be of use to 
me in any way, in any way to supply the place 
of her I had lost. . . . Yet ten days after ! l 

Mrs. Dunlop came several times. On June 8 
she would not get out of her carriage, but 
begged me to come down to her and speak to 
her in it. She then said, " Now I know you 
would not speak of these things to any one 
else, but you know you may trust me : now do 
tell me, was it not most extraordinary that 
Francis should, in spite of her forbidding 
him, force his way into his sister's house just 
upon the one day on which he knew his aunt 
was away ? Now of course you would not 
speak of this to every one, but Esmeralda 
loved me as a sister. You know you may trust 
me." She went on very long in the same strain. 
At last I was so shocked that I got up and 
said, " Mrs. Dunlop, I see what you wish me 
to say. You wish me to say that I think my 

1 Mrs. Alfred Montgomery died at Naples in January 1893. 


brother poisoned my sister. Recollect that / 
do not think so. I distinctly think that he was 
the cause of her death, but I think that she died 
of a broken heart," and so saying I left her. 

In the face of this Mrs. Dunlop afterwards 
asserted that I had told her that Francis 
poisoned my sister. In fact, I shall always 
believe that the whole of the poisoning story, 
as it appeared at the trial which ensued, ori- 
ginated, sprung up, and fructified with Mrs. 
Dunlop, the most unscrupulous of the con- 
spirators concerned. " Where the devil cannot 
go, he sends an old woman," is an old German 

On June 9 I received a letter from my adopted 
mother's niece, Mary Stanley, saying that some 
friends had come up to her at a party, and 
spoken of the cruel way in which Mr. (Fran- 
cis) Hare had been treated by his Protestant 
relations. When she asked an explanation, 
they said that Mrs. Montgomery had asserted 
(it was at Lord Denbigh's) that the doors of 
the house in Grosvenor Street were forcibly 
closed upon Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hare during 
Miss Hare's illness, and that she was influenced 
in her last moments to cancel a will in which 
she had left all her money to her brother 


S S 


Francis ; also that neither Francis nor his wife 
were then allowed to enter the house or to see 
their aunt, and that they had nothing to live 
upon, owing to their having been disinherited 
by Miss Hare, who supported them during her 
life. Mary Stanley, a Roman Catholic, shocked 
at such falsehoods promulgated by a member 
of her own creed, and seeing the discredit it 
was likely to bring upon her party, strongly 
urged my writing to Mrs. Montgomery, who 
had professed such intimate friendship for me, 
stating that I had heard such a report was 
circulated, though not by whom, and after put- 
ting her in possession of the facts, as my sister's 
dearest friend, urging her to contradict it. 

Having an inward distrust of Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, and a shrinking from any communica- 
tion with her, I did not then write as Mary 
Stanley wished. 

On June 1 1 Mary Stanley came down to 
Holmhurst, and again vehemently urged my 
writing to Mrs. Montgomery in defence of 
Miss Paul. On June 12 I yielded to her re- 
peated solicitations, and wrote Mary Stanley 
and my adopted mother looking over the letter 
and approving it sentence by sentence. When 
it was finished, Mary Stanley said, "That 
letter is perfect : you must not alter a word : 


it could not be better." The letter was as 
follows : 

" Holmhurst, June 13, 1868. Dear Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, I have heard on good authority that a report 
has been circulated in London to the effect that the 
doors were perfectly closed upon Mr. and Mrs. Francis 
Hare during Miss Hare's illness, and that she was 
influenced in her last moments to cancel a will in which 
she had left all her money to her brother Francis; 
also that neither Francis nor his wife are now allowed 
to enter the house or to see their aunt, and that they have 
nothing to live upon, owing to their being disinherited 
by Miss Hare, who supported them during her life. 

"As it is a pity that this impression should be 
allowed to gain ground, and as you were latterly the 
most intimate friend my dearest sister possessed, I 
venture to put you in possession of the facts. 

1. "In her previous will my sister had not even 
mentioned Francis' name. She had left 4000 to 
me, a very large legacy to Lady G. Fullerton, legacies 
to other friends, and the remainder to her aunt. 
Francis was not even alluded to. 

2. " Francis was not allowed to see my sister during 
the last days of her life at her own especial request : 
the very mention of his name made her scream with 
horror. In her last moments she left a solemn message 
with the Superior of the Precious Blood, to be given 
him after her death. This message was of so terrible 
a kind that, owing to Francis' critical state of health 
and the uncertainty of his life, he has hitherto been 
spared the pain of hearing it. 


3. "Francis and his wife are not allowed, by the 
lawyer's direction, to see my aunt until the whole 
terrible story of my sister's sudden death is cleared 
up. In the month of November, besides Grosvenor 
Street, bought and paid for, she possessed 12,000 in 
money; when she died she was absolutely penniless, 
except 216, interest and principal combined, and she 
was overwhelmed with debts. There is no trace of 
any part of her fortune except of 2000 which was 
lost on the Stock Exchange through brokers to whom 
Francis introduced her. 

4. " My dear sister's accounts at Coutts 1 show only 
too clearly that Francis had the greater part of her 
income. He will henceforward receive nothing from 
his aunt, who is totally ruined, and will scarcely have 
enough left to buy daily bread, as 2400 of her own 
little fortune is gone owing to signatures which Francis 
persuaded her to give. 

" I am sure you will forgive my troubling you thus 
far with our family affairs, but I am certain that many, 
knowing your intimacy with my sister, may ask you 
for information, and I wish you to be in a position to 
give it. Believe me yours very truly, 


In writing this letter, I had no idea of the 
significance which it might be made possible to 
attribute to the sentence No. 3 " Until the 
whole story of my sister's sudden death is 
cleared up." My own mind dwelt entirely and 
fixedly upon the impression that my sister's 


terribly sudden death was caused by the cruel 
shock of Francis' ungrateful letter coming to 
her in her weak state. To have it cleared 
up would be in my mind to have it clearly 
ascertained that she was poisoned, as most 
people believed, because in that case it would 
be certain that Francis might be held guiltless 
of her death, since putting other reasons aside 
he had never once been allowed to enter the 
house during the last days of the illness, and 
therefore coitld have nothing to do with it. 

The statements about the money were per- 
fectly correct ; my sister's solicitor vouched for 
them. I believed all the other statements to 
be correct also, for I wrote them, not upon 
what I had heard from one person, but from 
what I had heard repeatedly and from many. 
I did not know till long afterwards that " the 
message " was not given by my sister herself to 
the Superior of the Precious Blood, but that 
the Superior had received it through the ser- 
vants. It will be borne in mind that I had 
never myself seen the Superior, except in the 
group of mourners round the grave. 

It was not till after I had written the letter 
to Mrs. Montgomery that I was able to read all 
the details of my sister's former will, annulled 
upon her death-bed. All that I had said and 


more than that was true. The will was of 
great length and detail, but Francis was not 
even alluded to. It began by leaving ^4000, 
the family diamonds, miniatures, and plate, with 
various other valuables, to me, but it also left 
me residuary legatee. There was a legacy of 
^4000 to Lady Georgiana Fullerton, or, if she 
were dead, to her husband, Alexander Fullerton ; 
200 to Lady Lothian ; ^200 to Mr. and Mrs. 
Theodore Galton ; ^200 to Father Galway in 
all about ,5000 to Roman Catholics. Besides 
these, there were considerable legacies to Vic- 
toire, to Flora Limosin and her daughter, to 
Clemence Boissy, 1 and 200 annuity to her 
aunt. There were small legacies to various 
nuns Serafina della Croce, Pierina of the 
Precious Blood, the " Saint of St. Peter's," &c. 
From the virulence and avarice afterwards 
displayed by the Roman Catholics, and by the 
fact of their bringing an action to get the exact 
sum, ^5000, we could only conclude that they 
had discovered that my sister had originally 
left them that sum and that they determined 
to extort it from the Protestant part of the 

1 It was touching to us, and like Esmeralda's forethought, to find a 
clause in the will stating that in case of her former maid, Clemence, 
dying first, the annuity should be continued to her crippled helpless 
mother-in-law (whom Esmeralda had never seen), in order that Clemence 
might die without any burden on her mind. 


family, in spite of the fact that she had really 
left nothing, so that even the last will was 
valueless, and that, if it had not been so, I 
should have been the chief sufferer, having 
been residuary legatee under the old will. 1 

In less than a week from the time of my 
sending the letter to Mrs. Montgomery, I re- 
ceived one from a lawyer, who had long been 
mixed up with Francis' affairs, stating that 
unless I at once withdrew and apologised for 
every part of that letter, an action for libel 
would be brought against me. Knowing that 
Francis was utterly insolvent, my family and 
I treated this as an idle threat, and declin- 
ing any correspondence with the person in 
question, referred him to my solicitor. Mrs. 
Montgomery and Mrs. Dunlop had persuaded 
Francis to these proceedings, and Mrs. Mont- 
gomery had at once begun to stir up strife 
by taking the letter to him. 

On hearing what had happened, Mary 
Stanley wrote : 

"Jufy 1 6, 9 A.M. You may imagine that my indigna- 
tion is boundless. I can scarcely believe it. There 

1 Every precaution had been taken by Esmeralda to prevent her 
fortune from falling to her brother Francis. In case of my dying 
unmarried, everything was to go to her cousin Charles Williamson ; 
and in case of his death without children, to his brother Victor 


must be some mistake, because there is no sense in it. 
You were not in England when the will was made : 
it is Miss Paul, if any one, from whom they ought to 
extort money, if they wish it. 

" 2 P.M. All morning I have been out in your 
service. I went first to Farm Street, to see if I could 
see any of the priests who knew anything of the matter, 
but only two were in, who knew nothing. Then I 
went to Lady G. Fullerton, she was out; to Lady 
Lothian, she was out ; then to find out Monsignor 
Paterson's direction, and happily I found it and him. 
I wish you could have heard all he said. The moment 
I mentioned the name principally concerned he stopped 
me ' You need say no more ; I can believe anything 
of that person.' Nothing could be stronger than his 
words about her. . . . He was just as indignant at 
the whole transaction as you and I are. He said 
Francis, finding all else fail, was now trading on his 
faith. The Abbess Pierina had told him all that your 
sister said on her deathbed, and Monsignor Paterson 
desired me to say that you had only to command his 
services, and he would keep her to her words." . 

Meanwhile the action for libel was declared, 
an action which openly avowed its object, to 
extort ,5000. Meanwhile, also, it was found 
that Mr. and Mrs. Monteith of Carstairs had 
joined the conspirators, and were hand in hand 
with Mrs. Dunlop and Mrs. Montgomery. 
Soon after I reached home, Mrs. Monteith had 
written to me, expressing her great devotion 



to my sister's memory, and begging me to 
send all the sad details connected with her 
death. I answered to the effect that those 
who were present could better tell the story 
of my sister's death. Had I written to Mrs. 
Monteith, doubtless my letter to her would 
have been used in the action, instead of that 
which I wrote, when I fell into the more 
skilful trap laid by Mrs. Montgomery. The 
Monteiths before this were intimate friends of 
mine. I had spent a week at Carstairs in the 
preceding October. With Francis they were 
previously unacquainted. Therefore it could 
have been only the interests of their Church 
which incited them to the course they pursued. 
On the 1 8th of July Mary Stanley wrote : 

"At last I have got into the enemy's camp. I found 
Mrs. Dunlop this morning, and for an hour heard her 
version, and was aghast at the violence with which 
she spoke. I am very glad I have seen her, because 
it gives me a fresh insight into the state of things. 
She said Francis himself was absolutely passive, and 
allowed his friends to act for him ; that he was now 
living on charity, and of course his friends must defray 
the cost of prosecution. 

"She also said that Mrs. Montgomery's letter was 
used for the prosecution only because it happened 
to be more convenient than Mrs. Dunlop's evidence. 
They were resolved to prosecute you. 


" I was so afraid of doing mischief, I scarcely knew 
what to say, but the general point I urged was that I 
had heard from a Catholic priest to whom I had spoken 
on the subject that the accusation of poison originated 
with the Abbess, who had told my informant that 
Miss Hare had said so to her / and that my informant 
was ready to hold her to these words." 

I do not think that any words could describe 
my misery at this time " battered and fretted 
into great sorrow of heart," as Carlyle would 
say. It was naturally of far more consequence 
to me than to any one else to screen the miser- 
able Francis, whom I alone had cared for and 
helped during the long years of his prison life, 
and who was now as a last resource consent- 
ing to extort what was equivalent to hush-money 
from me either hush-money to save the family 
from the exposure of his own past life, or a 
provision for life from the Roman Catholic 
conspirators, if they were successful in the 
scheme to which he lent himself. Yet I pos- 
sessed nothing, and even if I could have 
brought myself to let the Roman Catholics 
so far triumph, I could not have allowed my 
adopted mother to impoverish herself by the 
purchase of their silence. And all the time 
there was the unutterable weariness of contra- 
dicting all the false reports, of making over and 


over again the statement that if my sister were 
poisoned, then Francis, who had never seen her 
during her illness, was innocent of her death, 
but that if she were not poisoned, then the 
moral cause of it must be attributed to him ; 
and mingled through the whole were silent 
bursts of indignant misery over the cruel suf- 
ferings which Esmeralda had undergone, and 
the calumnious falsehood of her friends, with 
anguish over her so recent death. 

When it became quite evident that the only 
real object of the conspiracy was to extort 
money from me, because I was supposed to be, 
as Mrs. Dunlop expressed it, " the richest of 
the family," I did all I could to save family 
scandal by offering to withdraw the letter to 
Mrs. Montgomery altogether. My solicitor 
made every possible offer on my part, but was 
always answered that they must have " pecu- 
niary compensation," in fact, it was always 
made a question of buying back the letter to 
Mrs. Montgomery. The conspirators, as Mrs. 
Dunlop said, were " resolved to prosecute," 
and wished to use the letter to Mrs. Mont- 
gomery because " it was more convenient to 
use than anything else." They would listen to 
nothing, consider nothing. Is it not Whyte- 


Melville who says, " I never knew but one 
woman who could understand reason, and she 
wouldn't listen to it ? " 

When we knew that the trial was inevitable, 
we did what we could to prepare for it. I was 
strongly advised to put the case entirely into 
the hands of my sister's solicitor, who was 
already acquainted with all the dark page of 
Francis' past life, rather than to give it to 
my adopted mother's respectable, old-fashioned 
solicitor, who was totally unacquainted with it. 
I afterwards regretted this course, as the one 
remark made by the latter, "that the Abbess 
should now be allowed to deliver her message," 
showed greater perspicuity than anything which 
was done by the former. He, on the contrary, 
insisted that there should be no communication 
at all with Pierina till just before the trial, and 
begged that I would not see her at all ; he also 
allowed himself entirely to lose sight of the 
servants, in spite of my repeated entreaties. 
His plan seems to have consisted in ferreting 
out all the proofs of what Francis' conduct had 
been for many years past, and of the way in 
which he preyed upon his sister during the 
last year of his life, as shown by his own 
letters and my sister's accounts, which were in 
our hands. 


In the " declaration of the action for libel" 
it was set forth as the necessary " injury " 
that it had caused Francis to be avoided 
by all his friends and acquaintances. Upon 
this we sued for particulars. Francis returned a 
list of the persons whom he declared to have 
been led to avoid him " Mrs. Montgomery, 
Mrs. Dunlop, Mr. Monteith, Mrs. Monteith, 
Marchioness of Lothian, and Miss Bowles," 
a list which included the very persons (several 
of whom he had not known before) who were 
at that time in constant communication with 
him, and were bringing on and subscribing for 
the action, which was nominally on his behalf. 
On Tuesday, July 28, the Roman Catholic 
lawyer asked permission to fix the day for 
the trial. This courtesy was not refused. 
He fixed the day instantly and summoned his 
witnesses, but he did not let us know till 
Saturday, August i, that the trial was to be 
on Monday, August 3, when, owing to the 
want of a London post on Sunday, it was 
most difficult, almost impossible, to summon 
the witnesses on our side. 

On Friday, July 31, my acting solicitor went 
to Monsignor Paterson and took down his 
deposition as to Pierina's account to him of 
the death-bed. Monsignor Paterson then de- 


posed that " the message " had been given 
by my sister in the form already described, 
and that my sister had also said she was 
"poisoned, and knew that she died of poison." 
Upon receiving this evidence, my solicitor 
naturally felt sure of his cause. He then went 
to see the Abbess Pierina in Mecklenburgh 
Square, when, to his utter amazement, she 
totally denied ever having received the mes- 
sage ; but (being terrified by threats as to the 
11 legal consequences" which might accrue to 
her) she did not then say that the message 
had been given to the servants and by them 
delivered to her to give to Francis. 

On Saturday afternoon, August i, Monsignor 
Paterson again saw Pierina, and, to his amaze- 
ment, was informed that the message which he 
had so positively declared to have been given 
to the Abbess was not what Miss Hare said 
to her, but what Miss Hare had said to the 
maids, who had told her. Monsignor Paterson 
wrote this immediately to my solicitor, who 
(owing to the want of London post on Sunday) 
only received it in court. 

On Saturday, August i, the announce- 
ment came that the trial would take place at 
Guildford on Monday the 3rd. On Monday 
morning Mary Stanley and I drove early to 


the Waterloo station to go down to Guildford. 
There were so many passengers for the trial 
that a special train was put on. At the station 
I was close to Mr. Monteith, who had come 
from Scotland to represent his wife, and young 
Gerard, who was to open the prosecution, but 
there was no speech between us. Sir Alexander 
Taylor went down with us, and at Guildford 
we were joined by many other friends. 

The heat of that day was awful, a broiling 
sun and not a breath of air. We had a little 
room to meet in at the hotel. Almost im- 
mediately I was hurried by my solicitor to 
the room where our senior counsel, the great 
Hawkins, was breakfasting at the end of a long 
table. He complained of the immense mass 
of evidence he had had to go through. He 
said what I knew that such a trial must ex- 
pose terrible family scandals that it would be 
a disgrace not to snatch at any chance of bring- 
ing it to a close that probably the judge would 
give it for private investigation to some other 
Queen's counsellor that, in fact, it was never 
likely to be a trial. 

When I came down from Mr. Hawkins, 
Mary Stanley and I were taken to court. There 
were so many cases to be tried, that ours could 
not come on for some time. As Leycester 


Penrhyn was there, who was chairman of the 
Quarter Sessions at Guildford, we were given 
places on the raised dais behind the judge, and 
there we all sat waiting through many hours. 
In that intensely hot weather, the court-house, 
with its high timber roof and many open 
windows, was far cooler than the outer air, and 
we did not suffer from the heat. But the judge, 
Baron Martin, whom I have heard described 
as far more at home on a racecourse than 
on the judgment-seat, was suffering violently 
from diarrhoea, was most impatient of the cases 
he had to try, and at last snatched his wig 
from his head and flung it down upon the ground 
beside him. 

About three o'clock in the afternoon we were 
assured that it was quite impossible our case 
could be brought on that day, as there were still 
so many others to be tried, and we were advised 
to go out and rest. So Mary Stanley and I 
went back to the hotel and remained there 
in a cool room. Presently, to our horror, a 
messenger came running down from the court 
and said, "Your case is on, and has been on 
twenty minutes already." We rushed to the 
court and found the whole scene changed. All 
the approaches to the court were crowded, 
literally choked up with witnesses and Roman 


Catholic spectators. The court itself was 
packed to overflowing. As I was hurried 
through the crowd, I recognised the individuals 
forming the large group of figures immediately 
behind the judge. There were Pierina of the 
Precious Blood and her attendant nuns in their 
long black veils and scarlet girdles ; there, 
in her quaint peaked head-dress, was the nun 
of the Miser icorde who had watched through 
the illness ; there was the burly figure of Mr. 
Monteith ; the sallow face of Mrs. Dunlop ; 
her husband the Admiral ; Mrs. Montgomery, 
beautiful still ; Lady Lothian in her deep 
mourning and looking very sad at being 
subpoenaed, which was a terrible pain to her ; 
Dr. Squires, Mr. Seyer, and Miss Bowles. 

When I was brought in, all seemed to be 
confusion, every one speaking at once ; Mr. 
Hawkins was in vain trying to put in a word, 
the judge was declaiming that he would have 
an end of the trial, whilst Serjeant Parry for 
the prosecution was in a loud voice reading 
the letter to Mrs. Montgomery and giving his 
comments upon it. 

The proceedings had commenced by the 
judge saying that he considered the case one 
which it would be most undesirable to discuss 
in a public court ; and suggesting, indeed trying 


to enforce, that it should be left to the arbitra- 
tion of some friend of the family. Repeatedly 
Baron Martin urged the expediency of a private 
investigation, saying that he " felt it his duty 
to make the suggestion, and that he thought 
the learned counsel (Parry) might act upon it." 
But the lawyers for the opposition refused 
any compromise whatever, for they knew what 
the evidence of Pierina and the servants was 
to be. 

Serjeant Parry then opened his speech by 
describing between whom the action was 
taking place. He drew a picture of the 
nominal prosecutor's life in which he dwelt 
on "the brilliant examination at Sandhurst," 
but touched lightly upon the time which he 
had passed in the gaieties both of the 
Continent and of this country, after which he 
became "not embarrassed, but reduced in 
circumstances." He then said that Esmer- 
alda had recently had a tolerable fortune, and 
was doubtless "supposed at her death to be 
in possession of it, but she was not, for she 
entered into speculations which had proved 
unsuccessful, so that she died a compara- 
tively poor woman." He then described the 
death-bed will. He asserted that the only 
cause of the death was inflammation of the 


bowels. He then said that he should proceed 
to read the letter, " supplementing it with 
evidence to prove that the defendant was 
actuated by the wickedest malice." 

It was at this point that we arrived in court. 
When a little silence was obtained, Parry 
began to read the letter, and having concluded 
the first sentence, said, " When the defendant 
states that a report has been circulated in 
London, &c., he states a deliberate falsehood. 
No such report ever was heard by him, and 
I will not say it is the effect of his imagination, 
it is simply an invention for the purpose of 
damaging the character of his brother." 1 

Serjeant Parry then read the paragraph 
saying that in the first will Francis was not 
even alluded to. "I have reason to believe 
that this also is totally false," he said, and that 
with the will itself lying open upon the table 
before him. 

Parry passed over the third paragraph of 
the letter, without any criticism except an 
absolute denial, but he read a note written 
by my sister before she received Francis' 
fatal letter, in proof of the affectionate terms 

1 At this point the agitation of Mary Stanley, who had been my 
informant, was so great, that she startled the court by something like 
a shout of denial. 


on which they were living. That the " mention 
of his name made her scream with horror/' he 
declared to be utterly false, and he asserted (for 
the first time stating facts) that the Abbess 
Pierina would deny that any message was given 
by my sister to her. Finally, Parry denied 
that there was any truth in the statement that 
Francis had received money from his sister, 
beyond the sum of ^300. 

As Serjeant Parry concluded his speech, 
Mrs. Montgomery was called into the witness- 
box. While the preliminary questions were 
being put to her, the confusion in court in- 
creased ; a letter was brought in to Mr. Harri- 
son and handed on by him to Mr. Hawkins. 
It was the letter from Monsignor Paterson, 
written on Saturday evening, which announced 
that Pierina would deny and belie the deposi- 
tion he had made. Immediately Mr. Hawkins 
turned round to me and said, "Our cause has 
received a fatal blow ; the Abbess Pierina is 
about to deny all the evidence she has given 
before deny all that she has said to Monsignor 
Paterson, and will swear that your sister's death- 
bed passed in total silence, save for the single 
word ' Auntie,' and under these circumstances 
it is perfectly useless to go on ; our antagonists 
will get the money they long for ; for money is 


all they really care for." " But," I said, "we 
can bring endless persons and Monsignor Pater- 
son's own deposition to prove what the Abbess's 
former statements have been." " No," said 
Mr. Hawkins, "you cannot bring a witness to 
prove a witness." "But," I said, "we can prove 
every other part of the letter." "That will 
do no good," said Mr. Hawkins; "if you fail 
in proving a single point, you fail in proving 
the whole, and the Roman Catholics will get 
the money ; besides, you cannot prove every 
other part of the letter, for where is the maid, 
Mary Laffam ? she is not here." And in 
truth, Mary Laffam (whose evidence was all- 
important, who was to swear to the screaming 
at the very mention of Francis' name, who 
was constantly present during the illness) was 
mysteriously missing, and no trace of her could 
then be found. Two days afterwards she was 
traced, and it was discovered that she had been 
sent abroad by the Roman Catholic confede- 
rates to be out of the way sent by them to the 
Augustinian Abbey of Charentan in France. 

During the discussion which was now tak- 
ing place, the utmost excitement prevailed in 
court. Almost every one stood up. Mr. 
Hawkins urged "Are your adopted family 
prepared to pay what the Roman Catholics 


claim?" "Certainly not." " Then you must 
submit to a verdict." " I leave it in your 
hands." So I wrote on a bit of paper, " Say 
no more than this. I withdraw anything that 
may be legally taken as libellous in the letter to 
Mrs. Montgomery." Then the group opened, 
and Mr. Hawkins again stood up and said that 
he was in a position to withdraw the letter if 
it contained any libellous statements to apolo- 
gise for them. At the same time "his client 
could not submit to be told that he had either 
acted maliciously or invented anything : he was 
absent from England at the time of his sister's 
death, and had throughout acted entirely upon 
information he had received from those upon 
the spot." 

" I will have an end of this, gentlemen," ex- 
claimed the judge " I give a verdict for forty 

" Make it ten guineas, my Lord," shouted 
the Roman Catholic lawyer, who had previously 
interrupted Serjeant Parry by saying "We 
will have money, we will have money." " There 
shall be an end of this, gentlemen," said the 
judge ; " I give a verdict for forty shillings," and 
he walked out of court. And so this painful 
ordeal came to an end. It was not till after- 
wards that I was aware that the verdict of forty 


shillings obliged me to pay the costs of both 
sides ^199 to my lawyer, and ^293 to the 
Roman Catholic lawyer, which was afterwards 
reduced by a taxing-master to ^207, 95. id. 

As soon as we left the court and returned 
to the hotel, our solicitor came in, and, before 
all those of our family who were present, 
declared how, by my desire, he had repeatedly 
offered to withdraw the letter to Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, but how money was always demanded 
as its price, and how money was proved 
throughout to be the only real object of those 
who brought the action. In looking back, there- 
fore, upon the whole of this terrible affair, I 
only see three ways in which the trial could 
have been avoided : 

1. If Miss Stanley had had the courage to go openly 
to Mrs. Monteith and Lady Lothian, and say boldly 
that she, a Roman Catholic, was the cause of my writ- 
ing the letter to Mrs. Montgomery ; that as to the 
" report," I acted entirely and exclusively on information 
which she gave ; that at first I had hesitated to do as 
she wished, but that she had continued to urge it ; and 
that she, a Catholic, had looked over the letter before 
it was sent, and begged me not to alter a word of it. 

2. If my solicitor had acted upon the one piece of 
advice given by Mr. Phelps, and weeks before the 
trial had requested Pierina to deliver her "message," 
we should then have known that the message was not 


given to her except through the medium of the ser- 
vants, and therefore that by English law the wording 
of the letter was indefensible. 

3. If my solicitor had been less supine in summoning 
witnesses if he had at once subpoenaed Mary Laffam 
and the other maids on our side, and had also sum- 
moned my Aunt Fitz-Gerald, who would have been 
willing and glad to give her evidence, and whose very 
appearance would have made Francis shrink from 
allowing the Roman Catholic confederacy to continue 
the trial. 

Mary Stanley and I went early to the 
Guildford station to wait for the train which 
was to take us back to London. We had 
not been long on the platform before all the 
Roman Catholic party emerged upon it. I 
went at once to meet and pass them, thinking 
it better at once to establish the terms on 
which we were to remain through life. The 
Mother Pierina alone lingered behind the rest, 
and, with streaming eyes and outstretched 
hands, came towards me. " Oh, I thought 
it would have been for peace," she said. 
I could not refuse to take her hand, when 
Mr. Monteith, turning round, roughly seized 
her by the shoulder and led her away, saying, 
" Reverend Mother, I must insist that you 
do not speak to that . . . person." After- 
wards, when she was entering the railway 



carriage after the others, Mrs. Dunlop seized 
Pierina and pushed her out of the carriage, 
almost throwing her down upon the platform, 
and slammed the carriage-door in her face. 
Admiral Dunlop immediately forced his wife to 
get out of the carriage and apologise to the 
Reverend Mother. I did not know till long 
afterwards the reason of Mrs. Dunlop's violence, 
which was the persistence with which Pierina 
throughout that day had dwelt upon the wicked 
unfairness of having the trial in the absence 
of Mary Laffam, who was the witness really 
responsible for all that had been said. On 
August 19 Mary Stanley wrote to me : 

" Yesterday I saw Sister Pierina. She said how 
extremely grieved she had been for you. She said 
the lawyer on the Catholic side read the evidence to 
all the party at Guildford, and that she then expressed 
her dissent, saying that it was not in accordance with 
what Mary Laffam had said to her and others, and that 
in justice to you, she, Laffam, ought to be present. All 
through that day (which she said was most dreadful to 
her) she asserted and reasserted this, and that you were 
not fairly dealt with, and to me she complained sadly 
of the un-christian spirit in which the affair had been 
carried on : Mrs. Dunlop, she said, was far the worst. 

" Pierina denies nothing. She could only say, when 
asked about the message, that none was given directly 
to her, and that to her your sister had only said, ' Tell 


Francis that he has been the cause of my death.' She 
was forbidden to say to whom the message was given. 
So far from going over to the other side, she was at 
war with them the whole day, and told me she did not 
believe any of that party would ever come near her 
again ; and I met Monsignor Paterson on Sunday, 
who told me that Mrs. Dunlop had been to him to 
complain bitterly of her." 

Afterwards the feeling of the conspirators, 
especially of Mrs. Dunlop and Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, became so violent against the Mother 
Pierina (on account of her persisting in the 
injustice of the trial), that they not only stopped 
their own subscriptions to her charities, but 
induced others to do so, and eventually, by 
the interest of Mr. Monteith with Monsignor 
Talbot and other Roman authorities, they 
brought about her recall and persecuted her 
out of England altogether. 

On August 7, Monsignor Paterson wrote a 
long letter to Mary Stanley, explanatory of his 
conduct in the affair. It contained the following 
remarkable passage : 

" A day or two after Miss Hare's death, which took 
me quite by surprise, I went to her house, and there saw 
Sister Pierina, who told me she had been summoned, 
and found Miss Hare actually dying ; that she seemed 
very suffering, and had some difficulty in resigning 


herself to the will of God. I remember also hearing 
that she expressed distress at some conduct on the part 
of Mr. Francis Hare, and I thought that other expres- 
sions used implied a suspicion on her part of some kind 
of foul play. Of course, had I taken this au serieux, it 
would have made a great impression, but I set it down, 
after a moment's reflection, as a random (perhaps almost 
delirious) expression, such as people who are very ill 
sometimes use with very little meaning at all." 

Strange certainly that an eminent Roman 
Catholic priest should call at his friend's house, 
hear that she had died suddenly, and that she 
had said on her death-bed that she died from 
" foul play," and yet be able so easily to dismiss 
the subject from his mind ! 

Soon after the trial I wrote a long account 
of the whole proceedings to Archbishop Mann- 
ing. His answer was very kind but very 
evasive " Miss Hare's death was most sad 
. . . the trial must have been most painful," 
he "sympathised deeply," &c., but without 
giving a direct opinion of any kind. 

It was not till some months later that I be- 
came acquainted with a secret which convinced 
me that, though my sister's end was probably 
hastened by the conduct of her brother Francis, 
yet poison was the original cause of her death. 
When we next visited Pisa, Madame Victoire 


told me how, when my sister was a little girl 
of six years old at Paris, she and her own little 
girl, Victoria Ackermann, were sitting on two 
little stools doing their needlework side by side. 
Suddenly there was a terrible outcry. Little 
Anna Hare had swallowed her thimble. The 
whole house was in consternation, doctors were 
summoned in haste, the child was given emetics, 
was held upside down, everything was done that 
could be done to bring the thimble back, but it 
was too late. Then the doctors inquired what 
the thimble was like, and on seeing the thimble 
of the little Victoria, who had received one at 
the same time, were satisfied that it was not 
dangerous, as the thimble being of walnut-wood, 
would naturally dissolve with time, and they 
gave medicines to hasten its dissolution. But, 
in the midst of the confusion, came Mrs. Large, 
the nurse, who confessed with bitter tears that, 
owing to her folly, the thimble was not what it 
was imagined to be. She had not liked to see 
the child of the mistress with the same thimble 
as the child of the maid, and had given little 
Anna one with a broad band which looked like 
gold but was really copper. When the doctors 
heard this, the accident naturally assumed a 
serious aspect, and they redoubled their efforts 
to bring back the thimble. But everything 


failed ; the wooden thimble dissolved with time, 
but the copper band remained. Gradually, as 
Esmeralda grew stronger, the accident was 
forgotten by all but her mother, Mrs. Large, 
and Madame Victoire, who observed from time 
to time, in childish illnesses of unusual violence, 
symptoms which they alone could recognise, 
but which were such as would arise through 
slight injury from poison of verdigris. As my 
sister grew, the copper ring grew also, attenu- 
ated to the minutest thread, but encircling her 
body. From time to time she was seriously 
affected by it, but her mother could not bear it 
to be spoken of, and her repulsion for the sub- 
ject communicated itself to Esmeralda herself. 
She was warned to evade a damp climate or 
the use of vegetables. When she was seized 
with her violent illness at Dijon, the symptoms 
were all such as would be caused by poison 
of verdigris. She then went to Pisa, where 
Madame Victoire was alarmed by what she 
heard, and insisted upon the best advice being 
procured, and a medical examination. The 
doctors who saw her, even then spoke to 
Madame Victoire of her state as very serious, 
and requiring the most careful watching. When 
Esmeralda went to Rome to the canonisation 
in the summer of 1867, she returned by Pisa. 


The faithful Madame Victoire then sent for a 
famous medical professor of the University of 
Bologna to meet her, and insisted upon her 
being examined by him. He afterwards told 
Madame Victoire privately that though, by 
intense care, Miss Hare might live for many 
years, her life, in case of accident, hung on 
a thread, and that it was highly improbable 
that she would live long, for that the copper 
ring was beginning to tell very seriously upon 
her constitution, and that when she died it would 
probably be suddenly of black sickness, with 
every appearance of poison poison of verdi- 
gris. And so it was. 

One of the principal actors in the scene at 
Guildford was soon after called to account before 
a higher tribunal than any that earth can afford. 
On the 1 8th of November (1868) I received 
(at Rome), to my great surprise, a letter from 
Madame Flora Limosin, of the Hotel de 
Londres at Pisa ( Victoire's youngest daughter), 
saying that Francis was about to arrive there 
from Hyeres. He had been sent away from 
England some time before, having then ^80 in 
his possession. Whether this sum was obtained 
by a Roman Catholic subscription, I have never 
been able to learn, but from this time the 


Roman Catholic conspirators ceased to help 
him : he had failed as the instrument for which 
they required him, and they now flung him 
aside as useless. His folly at Guildford, in 
lending himself to their designs, had also 
alienated the whole of his own family, even 
to the most distant degrees of relationship. 
Not knowing where to turn, he could only 
think of two persons who would receive him 
in his destitution. His mother's faithful maid 
Madame Victoire and her daughter Flora were 
still living at Pisa, and to them, when he had 
only 20 left, he determined to make his way. 
On landing at Spezia, though even then in a 
dying state, he would not enter a hotel, because 
he felt that if he entered it he would never have 
strength to leave it again, and he sat for hours 
upon his luggage on the platform of the station 
till the train started. For the sake of their 
old companionship in childhood, and of the 
kindness she had received from my father, 
Flora Limosin not only received Francis, but 
also the person to whom he was married, and 
gave them some quiet rooms opening upon the 
garden of the Hotel de Londres, where he was 
nursed by the faithful friends of his infancy. 1 

1 As Flora Ackermann, Madame Limosin had been brought up in 
my father's family, and, with her sister Victoria, had been treated like 
his own children. 


He was attended by Padre Pastacaldi, who ad- 
ministered to him the last offices of the Church, 
and says that he died penitent, and sent me 
a message hoping that I forgave him for all 
that had passed at Guildford. He died on 
the 27th of November, utterly destitute, and 
dependent upon the charity of his humble 
friends. He was buried by them in a corner 
of the Campo Santo at Pisa, near their own 
family burial-place, where the letters F. H. in 
the pavement alone mark the resting-place of 
Francis George Hare, the idolised son of his 
mother. 1 

1 Now (1895) every one who took part in the trial at Guildford is 
dead, except the priests, and, I believe, the Abbess Pierina. The 
person whom Francis Hare had married during the last months of his 
life vanished, immediately after his death, into the chaos from whence 
she had come. 



" Nothing but the infinite pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of 
human life." JOHN INGLESANT. 

" Never here, for ever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear 
For ever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, 
Forever never ! 
Never forever ! " 


"Dicnobis . . . Quid vidisti in via ? 

Gloriam vidi Resurgentis." 

From the Paschal Mass. 

" C'est une ame qui se racconte dans ces volumes : * Autrefois, 
aujourcThui' Un abime les separe, le tombeau." VICTOR HUGO. 

THE autumn of 1868 was indeed filled for me 
with utter misery and " weariness of spirit." 
If it were not that my dear Mother had gone 
hand and hand with me through the terrible 
time of the trial and the weeks which fol- 
lowed, I could scarcely have survived them. To 
please her, I went away for a time, at the end 



of August, to our old friend Mrs. Francis 
Dawkins near Havant, and to Ripley Castle 
and Flaxton in Yorkshire ; but I had no spirits 
to enjoy, scarcely to endure these visits. 

It added to the complication of troubles that 
the poor Aunt Eleanor, for whose sake alone I 
had brought all the trouble upon myself, now 
began to take some perverted view, what I 
have never ascertained. She went to live with 
her brother George Paul, who had lately re- 
turned from America, and for ten years I never 
saw her to speak to. 

I was most thankful when we left England 
for Italy on the 1 2th of October, and seemed 
to breathe freely when we were once more in 
our old travelling life, sleeping in the primitive 
inns at Joigny and Nuits, and making excur- 
sions to Citeaux and Annecy. Carlyle says, 
" My father had one virtue which I should try 
to imitate : he never spoke of what was disagree- 
able and past" and my Mother was the same ; 
she turned her back at once upon the last 
months, which she put away for ever like a 
sealed volume. We spent several weeks at 
Florence in the Via della Scala, whence, the 
Mother being well, I went constantly to draw 
in the gallery of sketches by Old Masters at 
the Uffizi. But, in the middle of November, 


I felt already so ill, that I began to dread a 
possibility of dying where my Mother would 
not have any one to look after her, and on the 
1 6th we hurried to Rome, where I had just 
time to look out lodgings for my Mother, and 
establish her and Lea in the Piazza. Mignanelli, 


when I succumbed to a violent nervous fever. 
Most terrible are the sufferings which I recollect 
at this time, the agonising pains by day, and 
the nights of delirium, which were truly full of 
Coleridge's " pains of sleep," in which I was 

1 From "South-Eastern France." 


frequently haunted by the sardonic smile ot 
the horrible Mrs. Dunlop, and otherwise by 
dreams which were, as Carlyle would say, "a 
constant plunging and careering through chaos 
and cosmos." In the second week of De- 
cember I rallied slightly, and could sit with 
Mother in the sun on the terrace of Villa 
Negroni. By the I4th I was able to walk a 
little, and went, supported on each side, to the 
quiet sunny path by the Tiber which then 
existed opposite Claude's villa. Just in front 
of us a carter was walking by the side of his 
cart, heavily laden with stones. Suddenly the 
wheel of the cart went too near the steeply 
sloping bank of the Tiber and tipped over ; 
the horse tried in vain to recover itself, but 
the weight of the stones was so great that 
it was dragged down, and slowly, slowly, 
screaming as only animals do scream, dis- 
appeared with the cart under the swollen 
yellow waters ; while the driver stood help- 
lessly upon the bank shrieking and wringing 
his hands. 

Weak as I was, this terrible scene naturally 
brought back all my fever, which now turned 
to typhoid, and I soon became delirious. By 
the following Sunday my life was despaired 
of. But in the small hotel where we had 


stayed at Florence, we had met an American, 
Dr. Winslow, with his wife and daughters, to 
whom my Mother had shown kindness, and 
who had been struck with our entire union 
and devotion to each other. Dr. Winslow 
arrived in Rome when I was at the worst, and 
the first news he heard was that I was dying. 
He at once gave up his Roman sight-seeing 
and everything else, and devoted himself to 
me, coming many times a day and nursing 
me with such wonderful care, that I eventually 
recovered, though it was February before I 
was at all myself again. It was an unspeakable 
blessing that my Mother continued well during 
my long illness, and was so kindly looked after 
by Mrs. Woodward and Miss Wright that I 
had no anxiety about her ; though in the spring, 
when we had moved to the Via Babuino, she 
had one of her strange illnesses, ending in a 
tranquil unbroken sleep which lasted two days 
and nights. It was about this time that she 
was called to bear a loss which in earlier years 
would have been utterly crushing, that of her 
sister-friend Lucy, who expired peacefully in 
her quiet home at Abbots- Kers well, with only 
her faithful maid watching over her. In her 
hermit-life, my Aunt Lucy had become farther 
removed from us each year, but two years 


before my Mother had found great happiness 
in visiting her, and her beautiful letters were 
a constant enjoyment. Still it is a merciful 
dispensation that to those who are themselves 
on the border-land of heaven, bereavements 
fall less bitterly, separations seem so short ; 
and, to my Mother, the loss of the dearest 
friend of her early life was only a quiet grief : 
she had " only gone from one room into the 
next." My Aunt Lucy Hare had never liked 
me, but I had none of the bitter feeling towards 
her which I had towards my Aunt Esther : 
she truly loved my Mother, and I could admire, 
though I could not enter into, the various graces 
of her character, which were none the less real 
because they were those of a Carmelite nun in 
Protestant form. 

To Roman antiquaries this spring was ren- 
dered important from the discovery of the site 
of the Porta Capena, the site of which was 
long a vexed question, by Mr. J. H. Parker, 
the Oxford publisher, who devoted much of his 
fortune to archaeological pursuits. Pius IX. 
granted him permission to excavate without in 
the least believing anything would come of 
it. But when he came to inspect the dis- 
coveries he exclaimed, "Why, the heretic's 
right," and complained bitterly that his own 


archaeologists, whom he paid highly, should 
have failed to find what had been discovered 
by a foreigner. Mr. Parker carefully marked 
all the pieces then found of the Servian Wall, 
and numbered them in red ; but the guardia, 
seeing the red marks, thought they meant 
something revolutionary, and destroyed them. 
When he found them gone, Parker was furious. 
" Is it," he said, " due to the absurdities of 
an effete religion, or is it perhaps the inso- 
lence of some rival archaeologist ? " (meaning 

As we returned through France in the spring 
of 1869, we diverged to Autun and Nevers, 
the last of the pleasant expeditions the dear 
Mother and I made together in summer weather. 
The greater part of our summer was spent 
quietly at home, and was chiefly marked for 
me by the marriage of my dear friend Charlie 
Wood to Lady Agnes Courtenay. 

7o Miss WRIGHT. 

" Holmhursty July 10, 1869. Your description 
made me see a pleasant mental picture of the cousin- 
hood assembled at your party. For myself, I cannot but 
feel that all social pleasures will henceforward become 
more and more difficult for me, as the Mother, though 
not ill, becomes daily more dependent upon me for 
all her little interests and amusements, so that I 

1 869] 



scarcely ever leave her even for an hour. It is an 
odd hermit-like life in the small circuit of our little 
Holmhurst, with one or two guests constantly chang- 
ing in its chambers, but no other intercourse with 
the outside world. At last summer has burst upon 


us, and looks all the brighter for the long waiting, 
and our oak-studded pastures are filled with gay 
groups of haymakers, gathering in the immense crop. 
The garden is lovely, and my own home-sunflower 
is expanding in the warmth and stronger and better 
than she has been for months past." 

1 From "South- Western France." 



" Holmhurst, August i. I cannot be away from 
home at all this summer, partly because I cannot 
leave Mother, who (though very anxious to promote 
my going away) is really becoming more dependent 
upon my constant care and companionship ; and partly 
because I cannot afford the inevitable small expenses 
of going anywhere, our finances having been com- 
pletely prostrated by the Roman Catholic robberies 
last year. Indeed, I have never been poorer than this 
year, as I have had nothing, and when I put two 
threepenny bits into the Communion plate to-day, felt 
exceedingly like the widow with the two mites, for 
it was literally all that I possessed ! However, this 
is not so very dreadful after all, and I daresay another 
year matters will come round." 

In September, however, when Charlotte Ley- 
cester came to take care of my Mother, I did 
go to the North. 


"Ridley Hall, Sept. I, 1869. Though I have got 
into a great scrape with Cousin Susan by calling 
blackberry jelly, 'jam,' and though I was terribly 
scolded the other day for saying ' thanks,' 'such 
new-fangled vulgarity,' this visit at Ridley has been 
very pleasant. First, there never was more perfect 
ideal weather, so fresh and bright, so bracing, and 
the colouring of the woods and moorlands, and .the 
glorious tumbling amber-coloured rivers so beautiful. 
Then I feel much stronger and better than I have 
done for two years past, and Cousin Susan, who 


thought me most ghastly when I arrived, is quite 
satisfied with the results of her grouse, pheasants, 
and sherry. On Wednesday Lady Blackett came 
to spend the day, and, after she was gone, Cousin 
Susan and 1 made a long exploring expedition far 
beyond the Allen Water, up into the depths of Staward 
valley most romantic little paths through woods and 
miniature rocky gorges to a ruined bridge and ' Plankey 
Mill,' and then up a steep wood path to the moor of 
Briarside. Cousin Susan had never been so far since 
she lived here, and we were walking, or rather climbing, 
for three hours, attended by the white dogs. These 
have chairs with cushions on each side the fireplace 
in her new sitting-room. One is in bad health, has 
medical attendance from Hexham at half-a-guinea a 
visit, and uninitiated visitors must be rather amazed 
when they see ' my poor little sick girl ' whom Cousin 
Susan is constantly talking of. ... On Sundays 
there is only service here in the morning : the clergy- 
man giving as his curious reason for not having it 
in the afternoon, that ' perhaps it might annoy the 
Dissenters.' . . . This evening it has thundered. 
Cousin Susan, as usual on such occasions, hid her- 
self with her maid under the staircase (the safest 
place in case of thunderbolts), and held a handker- 
chief over her eyes till it was over ; but her nerves 
have been quite upset ever since, and we are not to 
have the carriage to-morrow for fear the storm should 

" Ford Castle, Sept. 8. It was almost dark as I 
drove up the beautiful new road over the high bridge 


to the renovated castle, which is now all grand and 
in keeping. I found the beautiful mistress of the 
house in her new library, which is a most delight- 
ful room, with carved chimney-piece and bookcases, 
and vases of ferns and flowers in all the corners and 
in the deep embrasures of the windows. She is full 
of the frescoes in her school. ' I want to paint 
" Josiah was eight years old when he began to reign." 
I think he must be a little boy on a step with other 
children round him a very little boy, and he must 
have some little regal robes on, and I think I must 
put a little crown upon his head.' " 

" Sept. 10. Every day of a visit at Ford always seems 
to contain more of charm and instruction than hundreds 
of visits elsewhere. The great interest this time has 
been Lady Canning's drawings many hundreds of 
them, and all so beautiful that you long to look at 
each for hours. All yesterday evening Lady Waterford 
read aloud to us old family letters, from old Lady 
Hardwicke and from Lady Anne Barnard. l My great- 
aunt, Lady Anne Barnard,' she says, 'wrote a book 
very like your Family Memoirs, only hers was too 
imaginative. She called all her characters by imaginary 
names, and made them all quite too charming : still her 
book is most interesting. She was very intimate with 
Mrs. Fitzherbert, and describes all her first meetings 
with George IV. and the marriage, and then she went 
with her on her famous expedition to Paris. She 
got possession of all the real letters of the family and 
put them into her book, but she embellished them. 
She got hold of a letter Uncle Caledon wrote to my 




aunt when he proposed to her, but when Uncle Caledon 
read the book and found a most beautiful letter, he 
said, "My dear, I never wrote all this." " No, my dear," 
she answered, " I know you did not, but then I thought 


your real letter was not warm enough." Lady Anne 
Barnard wrote "Auld Robin Gray," and she used to 
describe how some one translated it into French, and 
how, when she went to Paris, she saw every one 
looking at her, she could not imagine why, till she 

1 From " The Story of Two Noble Lives." 


heard some one say, " Voila 1'auteur du fameux roman 
de Robin Gray.'" 1 

"Sept. 10. We have all been to luncheon at Carham, 
sixteen miles off, and the latter part of the drive very 
pretty close to the wide reaches of the Tweed, with 
seagulls flitting over it, and Cuyp-like groups of cattle 
on the shore, waiting for the ferryboats to take them 
across to Coldstream Fair. Carham is one of the well- 
known haunted houses : the ' Carham light' is celebrated 
and is constantly seen. We asked old Mrs. Compton 
of eighty-three, who lives there now, about the super- 
natural sights of Carham. ' Och/ she said, ' and have 
ye niver heard the story of the phantom carriage ? We 
have just heard it this very morning: when we were 
waiting for you, we heard it drive up. We are quite 
used to it now. A carriage drives quickly up to the 
door with great rattling and noise, and when it stops, 
the horses seem to paw and tear up the gravel. 
Strange servants are terribly frightened by it. One 
day when I was at luncheon I heard a carriage drive 
up quickly to the door: there was no doubt of it. 
I told the servant who was in waiting to go out and 
see who it was. When he came back I asked who 
had come. He was pale as ashes. "Oh," he said, 
" it's only just the phantom coach." 

" ' And then there is the Carham light. That is just 
beautiful ! It is a large globe of fire in the shape of 
a full moon : I have seen it hundreds of times. It 
moves about in the woods, and sometimes settles in 
one place. The first time I saw it I was driving from 

1 Lady Anne Barnard died in 1825. 


Kelso and I saw a great ball of fire. I said to the driver, 
"What is that?" "Oh, it's just the Carham Light," 
he said. When Dick 1 came in, he said he did not 
believe it he had never seen it ; but that night it came 
bright as ever. All the gentlemen went out into 
the woods to examine it ; but it moved before them. 
They all saw it, and they were quite convinced : it 
has never been explained.' 

"We had tea with the charming old lady. 'I've just 
had these cakes made, Lady Waterford,' she said, 
' because they were once very weel likit by some very 
dear to you ; so I thought you would like them.' 

" Lady Waterford sends you a riddle : 

' Mon premier est un tyran, mon second une horreur, 

Mon tout est le diable lui-meme. 

Mais si mon premier est bon, mon second ne fait rien, 
Et mon tout est le bonheur supreme.'" 2 

" Foxhow, Ambleside, Sept. 12, 1869. How lovely 
the drive into Foxhow from Windermere; but, after 
the grand ideas of my childhood, how small everything 
seems, even the lake and the mountains ! We drove 
in at the well-remembered gate by Rotha Cottage, and 
along those lovely Swiss pasture-meadows. It was 
like a dream of the past as one turned into the garden, 
all so exactly the same and so well remembered, not 
only from our last brief visit, but from that of twenty- 
six years ago. Dear Mrs. Arnold is little altered, and 
is so tenderly affectionate and charming, that it is 
delightful to be with her. She likes to ask all about 

1 Her son-in-law, Mr. Hodgson Hinde. 


you and Holmhurst, and says that her power of pro- 
ducing mind-pictures and dwelling upon them often 
brings you before her, so that she sees you as before, 
only older, in your home life. It is quite beautiful 
to see the intense devotion of her children to their 
mother and her happiness in them, in Fan especially. 
All the absent ones write to her at least three times 
a week. 

"We have just been in a covered car to Rydal 
Church : how beautiful the situation ! How well I 
remembered being sick as a child from the puggy 
smell of its hideous interior. It was just as puggy 
to-day, but I was not sick. There was a most extra- 
ordinary preacher, who declared that the Woman on 
the seven mountains was Rome on her seven hills 
' allowed to be so by all authorities, Jewish, and even 
Romanist/ that the dragon was only the serpent 
in its worshipped form, and that both were identical 
with the Beast and represented the pagan religion ; 
that the Woman flying into the wilderness before 
the Beast was Early Christianity flying from pagan 
persecution, and that when she came back, to St. 
John's astonishment she was seated on the Beast, 
i.e., she had adopted all the pagan attributes, the 
cross, the mother and child well-known objects of 
worship at Babylon, and Purgatory a tenet of pagan 
Rome ! " 

" Foxkow, Sept. 14. My Mother will have thought 
of this pouring weather as most unpropitious for the 
Lake Country, but in reality it has not signified very 
much, as each day it has cleared for a few hours, 


and the lights and shadows have been splendid. On 
Sunday afternoon Edward (Arnold) and I went up 
Loughrigg. All the little torrents were swollen by the 
storms, and the colours of the dying fern and the great 
purple shadows on Helm Crag and Bow Fell were 
most beautiful. It is a most picturesque bit of mountain, 
and it all strikes me, as I remember it did in 1859, 
as more really beautiful than anything in Switzer- 
land, though so contracted. 

" Yesterday afternoon we walked to Grasmere, and 
I stayed looking at the interesting group of Wordsworth 
tombs, whilst Edward paid a visit. Afterwards the 
lake looked so tempting, that Edward rowed me down 
it, sending the boat back by a boy. We landed at the 
outlet of the Rotha on the other side, and had a beauti- 
ful walk home by a high terrace under Loughrigg. If 
one remained in this country, one could not help 
becoming fond of Wordsworth, his descriptions are so 
exact. Edward has repeated many of his poems on 
the sites to which they apply, and they are quite 
beautifully pictorial. Mrs. Arnold is very happy in 
the general revival of interest in his poetry. . . . No- 
thing can be more enjoyable and united than the 
family life here, the children and grandchildren 
coming and going, and so many interesting visitors. 
Truly dear Mrs. Arnold's is an ideal old age, so 
hedged in by the great love and devotion of her 
descendants." 1 

" Dalton Hall, Lancashire , Sept. 17. I always enjoy 
being here with the Hornbys. Yesterday we drove 

1 I never saw Mrs. Arnold again : she died in the autumn of 1873. 


in the morning to Yealand, a pretty village so called 
from the Quakers who colonised it. In the afternoon 
we went to Levens. It is a lovely country, just upon 
the outskirts of the Lake District, with the same rich 
green meadows, clear streams, and lanes fringed with 
fern and holly. We passed through Milnthorpe, and 
how well I remembered your shutting me up and 
making me learn a Psalm in the inn there, instead of 
letting me go out to draw ! The country is very primi- 
tive still. An. old clergyman who officiated till lately 
in the neighbouring church of Burton Moss had only 
three sermons, one of which was laid in turn on the 
pulpit desk by his housekeeper every Sunday morning. 
When he had finished, he used to chuck it down to 
her out of the pulpit. One of these sermons was on 
' Contentment/ and contained apropos of discontent 
the story of the Italian nobleman whose tombstone 
bore the words, ' I was well, I wished to be better, and 
now I am here.' " 

It was a great pleasure this autumn to see 
again in London the New Zealand Sir George 
Grey. I remember his saying how he wished 
some one would write a poem on Pharaoh 
pursuing the Israelites to the Red Sea, from 
the point of view that in pursuing them he was 
pursuing Christianity ; that if the Israelites had 
perished, and not Pharaoh, there would have 
been no Redemption. 


JOURNAL (The Green Book). 

" Holmhurst, Oct. 13, 1869. After the storms of 
last year, this summer has been peaceful and quiet. 
My sweet Mother, though often ailing, has been very 
gently and quietly happy. She seems older, but age 
has with her only its softening effects casting a 
brighter halo around her sweet life, and rendering 
more lovable still every precious word and action. 
. . . We are more than ever to each other now in 

We left home in 1869 on the i4th of Octo- 
ber, intending to cross the Channel at once, but 
on arriving at Folkestone, found such a raging 
sea, that we retreated to Canterbury to wait 
for better weather. This enabled us to pay a 
charming visit to Archdeacon and Mrs. Harri- 
son, who had been very familiar to us many 
years before, when the Stanleys lived at 
Canterbury! It was the last visit my Mother 
ever paid, and she greatly enjoyed it, as it 
seemed almost like a going back into her 
Hurstmonceaux life, a revival of the ecclesi- 
astical interests which had filled her former 
existence. Whenever any subject was alluded 
to, Archdeacon Harrison, like Uncle Julius, 
went to his bookcase, and brought down some 
volume to illustrate it. Thus I remember his 


reading to us in the powerful sermons of Bishop 
Horsley. One of the most remarkable was 
upon the Syro-Phcenician woman. Another is 
on the French Nuns, in defence of their insti- 
tution in England, saying, with little foresight, 
how unlikely they were to increase in number, 
and how very superior they were to those 
women "who strip themselves naked to go out 
into the world, who daub their cheeks with 
paint, and plaster their necks with litharge." 

Apropos of the proverb about Tenterden 
Steeple and Goodwin Sands, Archdeacon Har- 
rison described how it was in allusion to two 
things totally disconnected. Tenterden Steeple 
and Goodwin Sands are very far apart, and of 
course have no connection whatever : yet per- 
verse persons used to say that Tenterden 
Steeple was the cause of Goodwin Sands, as 
money which ought to have been used to pre- 
vent the accumulation of Goodwin Sands was 
diverted to the building of Tenterden Steeple. 
The place where you may hear most about it is 
" Latimer's Sermons." Latimer is inveighing 
against the persons who denounced the study 
of the Bible as the cause of the misfortunes 
of the time, and says that they had as much 
connection as Tenterden Steeple and Goodwin 
Sands, and so forth. 


To Miss WRIGHT. 

"Munich, Nov. I, 1869. We made it four days' 
journey from Paris to Strasbourg. First we went to 
Bar-le-duc. I had longed to see it, from a novel I read 
once, and it is well worth while the old town rising 
above the new like the old town of Edinburgh tall grey 
houses pierced with eight or ten rows of windows, a 
river with a most picturesque bridge, and in the church 
'Le Squelette de Bar/ a wonderful work of Richier, 
the famous sculptor of S. Mihiel, commemorating the 
Princes of Bar (Henri I., II., III., &c.), sovereigns of 
whom I wonder if you ever heard before : I never did. 

" We slept next at Toul, where there is a fine huge 
dull cathedral, a beautiful creche by Ignace Robert, 
and a lovely convent cloister of flamboyant arches. 
Living at Toul is wonderfully cheap; our rooms for 
three were only four francs, and dinner for three four 
francs. 1 We wonder people do not emigrate to Lor- 
raine instead of to Australia ; it would be far cheaper, 
and infinitely more amusing. If it had been warmer, 
we should have gone to Domremy and S. Mihiel, 
but we feared the cold. We were a day at Nancy : 
how stately it is ! At Strasbourg we found that the 
storks had left, and we thought it the least inte- 
resting place on the road, yet most people stay only 

" We had three days at Carlsruhe, and found dear 
Madame de Bunsen most bright and well and charming, 
with much to tell that was worth hearing, and the fullest 

1 In the following year a siege by the Germans made Toul a familiar 
name throughout Europe. 




sympathy and interest in others. Generally one feels 
that conversation weakens the mind ; with the Bunsens 
it never fails to strengthen it. Madame de Bunsen 
talked much of the difficulties which had crowded 
round her when she herself was to begin the Memoir 


of her husband. Bunsen had said to her, ' You must 
tell the story of our common life ; you are able to do 
it, only do not be afraid.' Thus to her the work was 
a sacred legacy. First, as material, her son George 
brought her Bunsen's letters to his sister Christiana, 
which she had given to him, and which he had fortu- 

1 From "North-Eastern France." 




nately never given to his father for fear he should 
destroy them. Then she had written to Reck, the 
early Gottingen friend and confidant of all Bunsen's 
early life, and had been refused all help without any 
explanation ! Then Stockmar, Brandeis, &c., sent all 
their letters ; thus the work grew. But there were no 


journals, she had made no notes, there was only her 
recollection to fall back upon. Madame de Bunsen 
regretted bitterly the destruction of Uncle Julius's 
letters by his widow, especially those written in his 
early life to his brother Augustus, which would have 
been ' the history of the awakening of a new phase of 
opinions.' I made quantities of notes from the intensely 

1 From "North -Eastern France." 


interesting reminiscences Madame de Bunsen poured 
forth of her own life. 1 

"We were one day at Stuttgart, which I had never 
seen, and was delighted with so handsome, really a 
beautiful little capital, and we reached Munich in time 
to have one day for the International Exhibition of 
Paintings, which was well worth seeing finer, I thought, 
than ours. The German artists have surely far more 
originality than the artists of other nations. Three 
pictures especially remain in my mind 'The Chase 
after Luck/ a wild horseman with Death riding behind 
him in pursuit of Luck, a beautiful figure scattering 
gold and pearls whilst floating on a bladder, full speed 
across a bridge which ends in a rotten plank over a 
fathomless abyss : ' The Cholera in Rome/ the Angel 
of Death leading the Cholera a hideous old woman 
down the street under the Capitol by moonlight, and 
showing her the door she is to knock at : ' L'Enfant 
qui dort a 1'ombre du lit maternel, et les Anges qui 
savent d'avance le sort des humains, et baissent avec 
larmes ses petites mains.' It is interesting to see how 
familiar the German common people are with their 
artists: the great names of Kaulbach, Henneberg, &c., 
are in every mouth ; how few of our common people 
would know anything of Landseer or Millais ! " 

" Vicenza, Nov. 14. The descent into Italy by the 
Brenner was enchanting the exchange of the snow 
and bitter cold of Germany for vineyards and fruit- 
gardens, still glorious in their orange and scarlet 

1 I little foresaw then the immense service these notes would be to 
me in writing the Life of Baroness Bunsen herself eight years after. 




autumnal tints. We were greatly delighted with 
Botzen, where the delicately wrought cathedral spire 
against the faint pink mountains tipped with snow 
is a lovely subject. 

" At Verona we spent several days, thinking it more 
captivating than ever. Mother was able to enjoy the 
Giusti gardens, and I went one day to Mantua. It 
is wonderful. The station is two miles off, and the 


drive into the town across an immense bridge over 
the lake is most striking 2 the towers all reflected in 
the still waters, and the fishing-boats sailing in close 
under the houses. Then, in the town, the intense 
desolation of one part courts and corridors and 
squares all grass-grown and utterly tenantless is a 

1 From "Northern Italy." 

2 The approach to Mantua has since been altered, and is now 



striking contrast to the other part, teeming with life 
and bustle. The Palazzo del Te is marvellous only 
one story high, gigantic rooms covered with grand 
frescoes opening on sunny lawns with picturesque 
decaying avenues. I wandered over the vast ducal 
palace with three American ladies, who ' guessed ' that 
' when Mantua was in its prime, it must have been 
rather an elegant city.' " 

" Hotel de Londres, Pisa, Dec. 7. From Verona 
we went to Vicenza, where we stayed nearly a week 
in the old-fashioned palazzo which is now turned 
into the Hotel de la Ville. We found some old 
Roman acquaintances there Mrs. Kuper and her 
daughter, great Italian travellers, famous linguists, 
and excessively amusing companions. With them I 
went many delightful walks in the lovely country near 
Vicenza, which is quite the ideal Italy one reads 
so much of and so seldom sees splendid mountain 
background with snowy peaks ; nearer hills golden 
with decaying chestnuts and crimson with falling 
vine-leaves ; old shrines and churches half hidden in 
clematis and vine, and a most interesting town with 
a fine picture-gallery Montagna (not Mantegna) 
being the great master. I took to the plan of trying 
to make ever so slight sketches from pictures, and 
find them, bad as they are, far more interesting than 
photographs. We had permission to walk in the 
lovely gardens of the old Marchese Salvi, close to the 
hotel, a great pleasure to the Mother. 

"The Kupers preceded us to Padua and engaged 
comfortable rooms for us there, to which we followed. 




Here was another kind of interest in the quaint 
churches ; the Prato della Valle with its stone popula- 
tion ; the University, where we went to hear a lecture 
and saw the 3000 students assembled; and the society 
of some pleasant young Paduans M. Fava and Count 
Battistino Medine, introduced by the Kupers. But 


alas ! Mother became very unwell indeed during the 
latter part of our stay at Padua, and I was made very 
unhappy by her constant cough and inability to take 
food. So I was thankful when we were able to come 
on to this comfortable hotel, where Flora and the faith- 
ful Victoire are incessant in their attentions. I am 

1 From "Northern Italy." 



[I86 9 

still anxious about my sweet Mother, who is very 
ailing and unable to go out ; otherwise I always like 
staying at Pisa, with its clean quiet streets and 
the interest of the Campo Santo, so full of beautiful 
relics and memories. Many delightful hours have I 


spent there, and what a school of art and history it is ! 
And then the Spina is always so graceful and striking 
against the crimson sunset which turns the muddy 
Arno into a river of fire. 2 Then, only think, I have 

1 From " Northern Italy." 

2 The Spina has since been rebuilt and spoilt by the Sardinian 




made a new friend, and, strange to say, an American, 
with the uninteresting name of Robert Peabody. I 
do not know when, if ever, I have seen any one I like 
so much so clever, so natural, so unworldly, so large- 
minded, so good-looking. The Mother thinks my 
sudden friendships most fantastic, but I have no doubt 


about this one ; and as Mother was much better last 
week, I went away with him for four days to Siena 
and S. Gemignano, and we were entirely happy together, 
though it poured cats and dogs the whole time, and 
thundered and lightened as if the skies were coming 

1 From "Northern Italy." 



[l86 9 

down. I do not think you have ever been half excited 
enough about Siena: it seems to me such a sublime 
place the way it rises out of that desolate earthquake- 
riven country, the cathedral so grandly solemn, and 
such a world of interest circling around all the scenes 
in S. Catherine's life. I tried to draw the famous 


Sodoma, and longed to stay months, but we only did 
stay two days, and then away we went in a baroccino 
over the hills to S. Gemignano. You must never 
come to Italy again without going there : I am begin- 
ning now to fancy that no one has seen Italy who has 
missed S. Gemignano. It is a perfect sanctuary of 

1 From "Central Italy." 

i86 9 ] 



art, the smallest town ever seen, but with thirteen tall 
mediaeval towers in fullest preservation, crowning the 


top of the little hill like a huge group of ninepins, and 
with churches covered with frescoes by Filippo and 

1 From "Central Italy." 


Simone Memmi, Beccafumi, Ghirlandajo, and all that 
wonderful school. The great saint of the place is 
Santa Fina a poor girl, who had a spine complaint, 
lay for years on a backboard, bore her intense suffer- 
ings with great patience, and finally died a most 
peaceful and holy death perhaps the one Roman 
Catholic saint whose story is unspoilt by miracles. I 
first heard about her from Lady Waterford, and had 
always longed to see her native place. The Ghir- 
landajo fresco of her death is most touching and real, 
portraying the bare cottage room, the hard-featured 
Tuscan nurse, the sick girl on her backboard all like 
a scene in a Tuscan cottage now; and, above, the 
angels floating away with their newly-gained sister. 
But the people of S. Gemignano forgot the picture 
when they quaintly told us that 'all the little 
flowers and shrubs were so enchanted with her 
exemplary patience, that they began to sprout around 
her bed, and by her twenty-eighth year (when she 
died) she was lying in quite a garden of beautiful 
flowers.' " 

In recollection I feel grateful for this short 
absence from my Mother with Robert Peabody, 
as it procured for me my last tiny letter from 
her cheerful and tender as all her letters 
were now. But after the beginning of 
December I seldom left her, and the next six 
weeks were spent entirely in her room, in 
watching and cheering her through a time of 
great suffering, whilst the rain never ceased 


to fall in torrents. I was often able to amuse 
her with stories of my companions at the table- 


" Pisa, Nov. 27. The chief interest here has been 
from travellers in the hotel a Mr. and Mrs. D., kind, 
vulgar people, who have seldom been out of London, 
except to Paris, and who do not speak a word of any 
foreign language ; at least Mr. D. does speak certain 
words, and uses them all together to all the foreigners 
he meets, without any regard to their meaning ' Lait 
pain the" bongjour toodyswee ; ' a haughty pretty 
Polish girl and her governess, and a clever pretty 
Polish Comtesse de M. with her young husband. The 
last lady keeps the whole table alive with her stories, 
told with the utmost naYvete", and in the prettiest 

" ' I will tell you about my going to Ferrara. When 
I arrived I was gasping with hunger. We drove up 
to the hotel. " Could we have any dinner ?" "J'en 
suis desole, Madame, but the cook is out." We drove 
to another. " Could we have any dinner ? " " J'en suis 
au de'sespoir, Madame, mais il n'y a pas de feu." We 
drove on. Another hotel. We ordered our dinner, 
and when it was put on the table, it was so dreadful, 
I gave one look and ran out of the room. And then 
the sights of Ferrara ! We went to the castle. It 
was horrible a ghastly dungeon with bare walls and 
chains and one glimmering ray of light. " This" said 
the guide, "was the dungeon of Ugo and Parisina; 


here they suffered and here they died." Oh, mon Dieu, 
quel horreur ! I wished to go somewhere else. They 
took me to a convent again a ghastly room, a fearful 
prison. " This, Madame, was the prison of Tasso " 
encore des horreurs ! Oh, then I would have a 
carriage. I asked the driver where he would take 
me. "Ma, Signora, allo Campo Santo." Ah! quelle 
triste ville la ville de Ferrare ! But when we got to 
Bologna, and I asked where we should go, c'etait 
toujours la meme chose toujours an Campo Santo, 
and at Pisa here, it is encore au Campo Santo ! 

" ' At Ferrara, in the prison of Tasso, they show on 
the wall an ode written by Lord Byron. The rest 
of the wall is white, but the place where the ode is 
written is brown. "Why," I asked, "is that part of 
the wall brown ?"" Ah !" said the custode, "that is 
the sweat of the English. All the English will touch 
the writing of their compatriot, and then they perspire 
from their hot fingers, and thus it is brown." In the 
same room is a great hole; the wall has crumbled 
away : it is gone : the room will fall. " And what is 
that ? " I asked. "Ah ! that is made by the English, 
who all insist upon taking away a morsel of the prison 
of Tasso." And thus it was at Verona; when I saw 
Juliet's tomb, they told me it was only an imitation ; 
for as for the real one, the English ladies had chopped 
it all up and were wearing it in bracelets. Oh, comme 
c'est ennuyant de voyager, il faut tourner la tete pour 
regarder les tableaux, et on casse le cou par ici : il 
faut regarder par la fenetre pour voir la vue, et on 
casse le cou par la : il faut regarder au plafond pour 
voir les fresques, et on casse le cou de tous les c6te"s 


a la fois. And then the journey to Switzerland ! 
Mais aller en Suisse, jamais ! What do you want to 
see mountains for ? to admire their height ? Ah ! then 
how stupid to go up ! Why, of course they become 
shorter every step you go. No, you should go into 
the depths to see the mountains. Les plaines pour 
moi ! . . . Jusqu'^ mon mariage je ne suis jamais sortie 
a pied, mais depuis mon mariage je suis devenue . . . 

" I asked the Polish ladies if the language they spoke 
was Russian. It was like throwing a bomb into the 
camp. They detest the Russians, and would not speak 
to a pleasant Countess Boranoff, nte Wasilikoff, who 
has been staying here. . . . But of all my Pisan ac- 
quaintance there is none like Robert Peabody! He 
has been at an atelier in Paris for two years studying 
as an architect, and had a charming life there with his 
fellow-students, making walking tours in France, &c. 
When he first went to Paris, he did not know a word 
of French, and made out his washing bills by draw- 
ing little pictures, socks, shirts, drawers, &c., and the 
washerwoman put the prices opposite them." 

On December 10 occurred the terrible floods 
of the Arno. 


"Pisa, Dec. u, 1869. How little you will be able 
to imagine all we have been going through in the last 
twenty-four hours ! We have had a number of adven- 
tures in our different travels, but this is by far the 


worst that has ever befallen us. Now I must tell you 
our story consecutively. 

" For the last three days the Mother has been very 
ill. On Thursday she had an attack of fainting, and 
seemed likely to fall into one of her long many days' 
sleep. . . . The rain continued day and night in 
torrents. Yesterday made it three weeks since we 
arrived, and in that time there had been only two days 
in which the rain had not been ceaseless. The Arno 
was much swollen : I saw it on Thursday, very curious, 
up to the top of the arches of the bridges. 

"Yesterday, Friday, Madame Victoire came to dine 
with Lea. Afterwards she came up to see us as usual, 
and then Flora's children came to be shown pictures. 
I think it must have been half-past three when they 
took leave of us. Lea went with them down the 
passage. Soon she came back saying that little Anna 
said there was ' such an odd water coming down the 
street, would I come and see/ and from the passage 
window I saw a volume of muddy water slowly pouring 
down the street, not from the Arno, but from towards 
the railway station, the part of the street towards 
Lung' Arno (our street ends at the Spina Chapel) 
remaining quite dry. The children were delighted and 
clapped their hands. I meant to go and see the water 
nearer, but before I could reach the main entrance, in 
half a minute the great heavy waves of the yellow 
flood were pouring into the courtyard and stealing 
into the entrance hall. 1 

1 The great dikes of the Arno had burst a long way off, so that the 
flood came upon us from behind. Only the eastern bank of the Arno 
was flooded. 




"It was as suddenly as that it came upon us. 

" The scene for the next half-hour baffles all descrip- 
tion. Flora and her mother stood on the principal stair- 
case crying and wringing their hands : the servants 
rushed about in distraction : Lea, pale as ashes, thought 
and cried that our last moment was come ; and all the 


time the heavy yellow waters rose and rose, covering 
first the wheels of the omnibus, the vases, the statues 
in the garden, then up high into the trees. Inside, 
the carpets were rising and swaying on the water, and 
in five minutes the large pieces of furniture were 
beginning to crash against each other. I had rushed 


at the first alarm to \he-garde meuble, and (how I 
did it I cannot imagine) dragged our great box to 
the stairs: it was the only piece of luggage saved 
from the ground-floor. Then I rushed to the salle-a- 
manger, and shouting to Flora to save the money in 
her bureau, swept all the silver laid out for dinner into 
a tablecloth, and got it safe off. From that moment 
it was a sauve qui peut. I handed down rows of 
teapots, jugs, sugar-basins, &c., to the maids, who 
carried them away in lapfuls : in this way also we 
saved all the glass, but before we could begin upon 
the china, the water was up to our waists and we were 
obliged to retreat, carrying off the tea-urns as a last 
spoil. The whole family, with Amabile and all the old 
servants, were now down in the water, but a great deal 
of time was wasted in the belief that a poor half-witted 
Russian lady was locked into her room and drowning, 
and in breaking open the door; but when at last a 
panel of the door was dashed in, the room was found 
full of water and all its contents swimming about, but 
the lady was . . . gone out for a walk ! 

" As I was coming in from the lower rooms to the 
staircase with a load of looking-glasses, a boat crashed 
in at the principal entrance, bringing home the poor 
lady and two other English, who had been caught by 
the flood at the end of the street, and had been for 
some time in the greatest peril : the boatmen having 
declined to bring them the few necessary steps until 
they had been paid twenty francs, and then having 
refused altogether to bring a poor Italian who had no 
money to give them. At this moment Madame Victoire 
insisted on taking the opportunity of the boat to return 


to her own house. It was a dreadful scene, all the 
women in the house crying and imploring her to stay, 
but she insisted on embarking. She did not arrive 
without hairbreadth escapes. When she reached her 
own house, the current was so strong, and the boat was 
dashed so violently against the walls, that it was impos- 
sible for her to be landed ; but the flood was less violent 
beneath her larger house which is let to the Marchese 
Guadagna, from which sheets were let down from the 
upper windows, and she was fastened to them and 
raised : but when she reached the grille of the first- 
floor windows, and was hanging half-way, the current 
carried away the boat, and at the same moment the 
great wall opposite S. Antonio fell'with an awful crash. 
However, the Guadagna family held tight to the sheets, 
and Madame Victoire was landed at last, though she 
fell insensible on the floor when she entered the 

"The walls were now falling in every direction with 
a dull roar into the yellow waters. The noise was 
dreadful the cries of the drowning animals, the 
shrieks of the women, especially of a mother whose 
children were in the country, wringing her hands at 
the window of an opposite house. The water in our 
house was rising so rapidly that it was impossible 
to remain longer on the side towards the principal 
staircase, and we fled to the other end, where Pilotte, 
a poor boy in the service, lay dangerously ill, but was 
obliged to get up from his bed, and, though quite blind 
from ophthalmia, was far more useful than any one else. 
Since her mother left, Flora had been far too distracted 
to think of anything; still we saved an immense number 


of things, and I was able to cut down pictures, &c., float- 
ing on a sofa as if it were a boat. The great difficulty in 
reaching the things was always from the carpet rising, 
and making it almost impossible to get out of the room 
again. The last thing I carried off was the ' Travellers' 
Book ! ' It was about half-past 5 P.M. when we were 
obliged to come out of the water, which was then 
terribly cold and above the waist. 

" Meantime the scene in the street was terrible. 
The missing children of the woman opposite were 
brought back in a boat and drawn up in sheets ; and 
the street, now a deep river, was crowded with boats, 
torches flashing on the water, and lights gleaming in 
every window. All^the thirty poor hens in the hen- 
house at the end of the balcony were making a 
terrible noise as they were slowly drowned, the ducks 
and pigeons were drowned too, I suppose, being too 
frightened to escape, and many floated dead past the 
window. The garden was covered with cushions, 
chairs, tables, and ladies' dresses, which had been 
washed out of the lower windows. There was great fear 
that the omnibus horse and driver were drowned, and 
the Limosins were crying dreadfully about it ; but the 
man was drawn up late at night from a boat, whose 
crew had discovered him on the top of a wall, and at 
present the horse exists also, having taken refuge on the 
terrace you will remember at the end of the garden, 
where it is partially above water. The street was 
covered with furniture, great carved wardrobes being 
whirled down to the Arno like straws. The cries of 
the drowning animals were quite human. 

" All this time my poor sweet Mother had been lying 


perfectly still and patient, but about 6 P.M., as the 
water had reached the highest step of the lower ^stair- 
case and was still mounting, we had our luggage 
carried up to the attics, secured a few valuables in 
case of sudden flight (as no boat would have taken 
luggage), and began to get Mother dressed. There 
was no immediate danger, but if another embankment 
broke, there might be at any moment, and it was well 
to be prepared. Night closed in terribly pouring rain 
again, a perfectly black sky, and waters swelling round 
the house : every now and then the dull thud of some 
falling building, and, from beneath, the perpetual crash 
of the furniture and floors breaking up in the lower 
rooms. Mother lay down dressed, most of the visitors 
and I walked the passages and watched the danger- 
marks made above water on the staircase, and tried 
to comfort the unhappy family, in what, I fear, is their 
total ruin. It seemed as if daylight would never 
come, but at 6 A.M. the water was certainly an inch 

" It was strange to return to daylight in our besieged 
fortress. There had been no time to save food, but 
there was one loaf and a little cheese, which were dealt 
out in equal rations, and we captured the drowned 
hens as the aviary broke up, and are going to boil 
one of them down in a tiny saucepan, the only 
cooking utensil saved. Every one has to economise 
the water in their jugs (no chance of any other), 
and most of all their candles. . . . How we are ever 
to be delivered I cannot imagine. The railways to 
Leghorn, Spezia, and Florence must all be under 

VOL. III. 7. 


"Dec. 14. It seems so long now since the inundation 
began and we were cut off from every one : it is im- 
possible to think of it as only three days. 

" Nothing can be more dreadful than the utter 
neglect of the new Government and of the munici- 
pality here. They were fully warned as to what would 
result if Pisa was not protected from the Arno, but 
they took no heed, and ever since the dikes broke 
they have given no help, never even consenting to 
have the main drains opened, which keeps us still 
flooded, refusing to publish lists of the drowned, and 
giving the large sums sent for distribution in charity 
into the hands of the students, who follow one another, 
giving indiscriminately to the same persons, whilst 
others are starving. On Saturday night there ceased 
to be any immediate alarm : the fear was that the Arno 
might break through at the Spina, which still stands, 
and which, being so much nearer, would be far more 
serious to us. The old bridge is destroyed. All 
through that night the Vicomte de Vauriol and the men 
of the house were obliged to watch on the balconies 
with loaded pistols, to defend their property floating in 
the garden from the large bands of robbers who came in 
boats to plunder, looking sufficiently alarming by the 
light of their great torches. The whole trousseau of 
the Vicomtesse is lost, and her maid has 4000 francs 
in her box, which can still be seen floating open. 
. . . But the waters are slowly going down. Many 
bodies have been found, but there are still many more 
beneath the mud. In the lower rooms of this house 
the mud is a yard deep, and most horrid in quality, 
and the smell of course dreadful. I spend much of 

:86 9 ] 



my time at the window in hooking up various objects 
with a long iron bed-rodbits of silver, teacups, even 
books in a state of pulp." 

11 Dec. 19. My bulletin is rather a melancholy one, 
for my poor Mother has been constantly in bed since 


the inundation, and cannot now turn or move her left 
side at all. ... 1 have also been very ill myself, with 
no sleep for many days, and agonies of neuralgia from 
long exposure in the water. . . . However, I get on 
tolerably, and have plenty to take off my thoughts from 
my own pain in attending to Mother and doing what I 


can for the poor Limosins. ... In the quarter near 
this seventy bodies have been found in the mud, and 
as the Government suppresses the number and buries 
them all immediately, there are probably many more. 
Our friends at Rome have been greatly alarmed 
about us." 

" Dec. 27. Mother has been up in a chair for a few 
hours daily, but cannot yet be dressed. The weather 
is horrible, torrents of rain night and day quite 
ceaseless, and mingled with snow, thunder, and light- 
ning. It is so dark even at midday, that Mother can 
see to do nothing, and I very little. The mud and 
smell would prevent our going out if it were otherwise 
possible. It has indeed been a dismal three months, 
which we have all three passed entirely in the sick- 
room, except the four days I was away. . . . Still the 
dear Mother says ' we shall have time to recount our 
miseries in heaven when they are over; let us only 
recount our mercies now.' " 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

"33 Via Gregoriana, Rome, Jan. 19, 1870. You 
will have heard from others of our misfortunes at 
Pisa, of Mother's terrible illness, and my wearing 
pains, and in the midst of all this our awful floods, 
the Arno bursting its banks and overwhelming the 
unhappy town with its mud-laden waves. I cannot 
describe to you the utter horror of those three days 
and nights the rushing water (waves like the sea) 
lifting the carpets and dashing the large pieces of 
furniture into bits like so many chips, the anxious 


night-watchings of the water stealthily advancing up 
step after step of the staircase, the view from the 
upper corridor windows of the street with its rushing 
tonrbillon of waters, carrying drowning animals, beds, 
cabinets, gates, &c., along in a hideous confusion; 
from our windows of the garden one maze of waters 
afloat with chairs, tables, open boxes, china, and 
drowned creatures ; the sound of the falling walls 
heavily gliding into the water, and the cries of the 
drowning and their relations. And then, in the 
hotel, the life was so strange, the limited rations 
of food and of water from the washing jugs, and the 
necessity for rousing oneself to constant action, and 
far more than mere cheerfulness, in order to prevent 
the poor people of the hotel from sinking into abso- 
lute despair. 

"When the real danger to life once subsided and 
the poor drowned people had been carried away to 
their graves, and the water had changed into mud, 
it was a strange existence, and we had still six weeks 
in the chilled house with its wet walls, and an im- 
possibility of going out or having change. However, 
there is a bright side to everything, and the utter 
isolation was not unpleasant to me. I got through 
no end of writing work, having plenty also to do in 
attending on my poor Mother ; and you know how 
I can never sufficiently drink in the blessedness of 
her sweet companionship, and how entirely the very 
fact of her existence makes sunshine in my life, 
wherever it is. 

" All the time of our incarceration I have employed 
in writing from the notes of our many Roman winters, 


which were saved in our luggage, and which have been 
our only material of employment. It seems as if 
' Walks in Rome ' would some day grow into a book. 
Mother thinks it presumptuous, but I assure her that 
though of course it will be full of faults, no book would 
ever be printed if perfection were waited for. And 
I really do know much more about the subject than 
most people, though of course not half as much as 
I ought to know. 

"One day I was away at Florence, where I saw 
Lady Anne S. Giorgio and many other friends in a 
very short time. How bright and busy it looked after 

"Last week Pisa devoted itself, or rather its priests, 
to intense Madonna-worship, because, owing to her 
image, carved by St. Luke, the flood was no worse. 
Her seven petticoats, unremoved for years, were taken 
off one by one and exchanged for new, and this 
delicious event was celebrated by firing of cannon, 
processions, and illuminations all over the town. In 
the midst, the Arno displayed its disapproval by rising 
again violently and suddenly ; the utmost consternation 
ensued ; the population sat up, doors were walled up, 
the doll-worshippers were driven out of the cathedral 
(which lies very low) at the point of the bayonet by 
the Bersaglieri under General Bixio. To us, the great 
result of the fresh fright was, that the Mother suddenly 
rose from her bed, and declaring that she could not 
stay to endure another inundation, dressed, and we all 
set off last Wednesday morning, and arrived at mid- 
night after a prosperous journey, though the floods were 
certainly frightful up to the very walls of Rome. 


"Oh, how glad we were to get here to feel that 
after all the troubles of the last few months we were 
safe in the beloved, the home-like city. It is now 
only that I realise what a time of tension our stay at 
Pisa has been. We breathe quietly. Even the calm 
placid Mother feels the relief of not having to start 
up at every sound and wonder whether 'L'Arno e" 

" I always feel as if a special Providence watched 
over us in respect of lodgings. It has certainly been 
so this time, as we could never have hoped, arriving 
so late, to obtain this charming apartment, with full 
sun, glorious view, and all else we can wish. You 
can fancy us, with all our own pictures and books, 
the mother in her chair, the son at his drawing-table, 
and Lea coming in and out. 

" But on Friday we had a terrible catastrophe. In 
the evening at the hotel the poor Mother fell violently 
upon her head on the hard stone floor and was dread- 
fully hurt. You will imagine my terror, having gone 
out at 8 P.M., to find every one in confusion on my 
return, that Dr. Winslow had been sent for, and that 
I had been searched for everywhere. For some hours 
the Mother was quite unconscious, and she can still see 
nothing, and I am afraid it will be some days before 
any sight is restored ; but all is going on well, and I 
am most thankful to have been able to move her to 
her own house. 

" Do you know, I am going to renounce the pomps 
and vanities of the world this winter and not 'go out' 
at all. I have often found that it has rather fatigued 
Mother even to hear of my going out, and it is far 


easier to give a thing up altogether than partially. 
In the daytime I can see people. My American 
friend Robert Peabody is here, and the most de- 
lightful companion, and there are endless young 
men artists, quite a colony, and of the pleasantest 

" The weather is very fine, but very cold. I went 
to-day to St. Peter's (II Giorno della Scatola), and the 
procession was certainly magnificent. The Bishop 
who attracts most attention is Monsignor Dupanloup 
of Orleans, who at first displayed great courage in 
opposing the Infallibility doctrine, but is allowing his 
opposition to be swamped. Many of the Bishops are 
most extraordinary such a variety of forms and 
colours in costume, blue and violet veils, green robes 
and hats, and black caps with gold knobs like the 
little Shems and Hams in Noah's Ark. But the 
central figure of Pius IX. looks more than ever solemn 
and impressive, the man so lost in his intense feeling 
of the office, that it is impossible to associate him, 
mentally, with the Council and its blasphemies. Of 
the Council itself we hear nothing, and there is little 
genera] interest about it. Lord Houghton asked 
Manning what had been going on : he answered, 
'Well, we meet, and we look at one another, and 
then we talk a little, but when we want to know what 
we have been doing, we read the Times' " 


"Jan. 31. We have had another anxious week, 
though once more all is going on well. On Monday 



the Mother was well enough to see visitors, but that 
night was in terrible suffering, and the next day had a 
slight paralytic seizure . . . followed by long uncon- 
sciousness; but it was all accounted for the next morning 
when we found the roof white with snow. She con- 
tinued in great suffering till Friday, when the weather 
suddenly changed to sctrocco, and she at once rallied. 
That day I was able to have my lecture on the 


Quirinal and Viminal all new ground. There was a 
large gathering in spite of weather, so many people 
had asked to come. I have yielded to the general 
wish of the party in arranging weekly meetings at 
10 A.M., but it makes me feel terribly ignorant, 
and in the intervals of tending Mother I am at 
work all the week instructing myself upon the subject 
of my lecture." 


" Feb. 19. The Mother is still sadly weak, and 
always in an invalid state, yet she has not the serious 
symptoms of the winter you were here. She is seldom 
able to be dressed before twelve, and can do very, 
very little to read a few verses or do a row of her 
crotchet is the outside. I scarcely ever leave her, 
except for my lectures. I had one on the Island 
yesterday. The weather is splendid and our view an 
indescribable enjoyment, the town so picturesque in 
its blue morning indistinctness, and St. Peter's so grand 
against the golden sunsets. As usual, the Roman 
society is like the great net which was let down into 
the deep and brought up fish of every kind. . . . The 
Mother is quite happy and bright in spite of all her 
misfortunes, but we have had to feed her like a bird 
in her blindness. I wonder if you know the lines of 
Thomas Dekker (1601) 

' Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace ; 
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven ; 
It makes men look like gods. The best of men 
That e'er wore earth about Him was a sufferer, 
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit ; 
The first true gentleman that ever breathed." 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

" Rome, Feb. 27. My life this winter has been one 
of constant watching and nursing; the Mother has 
been so very powerless and requires such constant 
care : but she is, oh ! so sweet and patient always. 
You need not pity me for not going out; after the 
day's anxiety I find the luxury of the evening's rest so 
very great. 


" My Friday lectures now take place regularly, and I 
hope they give pleasure, as they are certainly crowded. 
I am amused to see many ultra-Catholics come time 
after time, in spite of my Protestant anecdotes. How 
I wish the kind Aunt Sophy were here to share these 

On the 1 2th of March I spent a delightful 
afternoon with a young artist friend, Henry 
Florence, in the garden of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, 
drawing the gloriously rich vegetation and the 
old cypresses there. My Mother was toler- 
ably well, and the air, the sunshine, and the 
beauty around were unspeakably enchanting. 
" I never saw any one enjoy things as you do," 
said Florence, and I spoke of my thankfulness 
for having the power of putting away anxieties 
when they were not pressing, and of making 
the utmost of any present enjoyment, even 
though it be to " borrow joy at usury of pain." l 
" Perhaps it may be the last day," I said. It 
was. There is an old proverb which says, ''The 
holidays of joy are the vigils of sorrow." That 
night my dearest Mother had the terrible para- 
lytic seizure which deprived her of the use of 
her left arm and side, and from which she 
never recovered. 

1 Monckton Milnes. 



" Rome, March 16, 1870. My darling Mother is 
to-day in a happy peaceful state, no longer one of 
suffering, which is oh ! such rest to us. She is now 
able to articulate, so that I always, and others often, 
understand her. ... I sleep close by upon the floor 
and never leave her. On Monday night we were 
pleasantly surprised by the arrival of Amabile, the 
maid from Pisa, who is quite a tower of strength to us 
so kind, gentle, and strong. Mrs. Woodward comes 
and goes all day. Every one is kind and sympathising." 

" March 23. Mother talks constantly of Albano 
and her great wish to be there amongst the flowers, 
but for many weeks, perhaps months, this must be 

" March 28. It has been the same kind of week, 
alternately saddened by the strange phases of illness, 
or cheered by slight amendments ; but Mother has had 
many sad nights, always worse than her days, without 
rest even for a minute. Her mind is only too clear. 
She will translate hymns, ' Abide with me/ &c., into 
Italian ; the great difficulty is to keep it all in check. 
From 4 to 10 P.M. the nervous spasms in the paralysed 
arm are uncontrollable, and she can only endure them 
by holding tight to my arm or Lea's. All yesterday, 
however, I was away from her, tending poor young 
Sutherland, who has been dreadfully ill at the Hotel 
de Londres of typhoid fever, and who is quite alone 
and helpless." 


" April 3. The Mother goes on very slowly, but 
I hope has not had an unpleasant week. She never 
seems to find the time long, and always looks equally 
placid and happy. Physically she is certainly more com- 
fortable now she is entirely in bed. Her chief trouble 
is from the returning vitality of the poor arm; the 
muscles knot all round it, and move on slowly by a 
quarter of an inch at a time, as the life advances : 
passing the shoulder was agony, and I dread the 
passing the elbow. Meantime, the rest of the arm 
is an independent being, acting by its independent 
muscular action, and is obliged to be constantly 
watched, as it will sometimes lay its heavy weight 
upon her chest, once clutched her by the throat and 
nearly strangled her, at others annoys her by stealing 
her pocket-handkerchiefs ! She has been able to hear 
a psalm and some prayers read aloud every evening, 
and occupies herself with her own inexhaustible stores 
of mental hymns and verses incessantly. Mrs. Wood- 
ward's daily visit is one of her little pleasures, and 
she has also seen Mrs. Hall several times. 

" My young cousin Edward Liddell x returned lately 
from Naples, and on Monday became very ill of fever, 
pronounced typhoid, and likely to become typhus and 
very infectious, so, as he had no one else to look 
after him, I have been nursing him ever since. It 
was so fortunate for me that Mother was really better 
at this time, or I do not know what we could have 
done, as though he had one good nurse, she was 
quite worn out, and there was no other to be procured. 

1 Eldest son of Colonel Augustus Liddell and grandson of my great- 
aunt Lady Ravensworth. 


So now we take it in turns, four hours at a time, and 
I chiefly at night, when she goes home to her children. 
I am writing in the darkened room, where Edward 
lies powerless, with all his hair cut off and his head 
soaked in wet towels, almost unable to move, and 
unable to feed himself. I am sorry not to be able 
to go out while Marcus Hare is here, and he is much 
disappointed. He arrived suddenly from Naples and 
embraced me as if we were still children." 

"April 10. My dear Mother is much the same. 
It has been a peaceful week with her, though there 
is no improvement. . . . The paralysed arm is quite 
useless, and has a separate and ungovernable indi- 
viduality. This is why she can never be left alone. 
Its weight is like a log of lead, and sometimes it will 
throw itself upon her, when no efforts of her own can 
release her. Odd as it sounds, her only safe moments 
are when the obstreperous member is tied up by a long 
scarf to the post of Lea's bed opposite and cannot injure 
her. Mentally, she is always quiet and happy, and I 
believe that she never feels her altered life a burden. 
She repeats constantly her hymns and verses, for which 
her memory is wonderful, but she has no longer any 
power of attention to reading and no consecutive ideas. 
All names of places and people she remembers per- 
fectly. As Dr. Winslow says, some of the organs of 
the brain are clearer than ever, others are quite lost. 

" As the fear of infection caused him to be left alone, 
I have been constantly nursing Edward Liddell. All 
last week his fever constantly increased, and he was 
so weak that he could only swallow drops of strong soup 


or milk, perpetually dropped into his mouth from a 
spoon. Had this been ever relinquished, the feeble 
flame of life must have become extinct. Last Monday 
morning I had gone home to rest, when the doctor 
hastily summoned me back, and I found new symptoms 
which indicated the most immediate danger ; so then, 
on my own responsibility, I telegraphed for Colonel 
and Mrs. Augustus Liddell (his father and mother), 
and soon had the comfort of hearing that they were 
en route. That evening the alarming symptoms re- 
turned with such frightful vehemence that both nurse 
and doctor thought it impossible that he could survive 
the night. Then and for three nights after I never 
left Edward for a moment, bathing his head, feeding 
him, holding him, and expecting him every instant 
to die in my arms, and in the day only I returned 
to pay Mother visits. Anything like his sweetness, 
gentleness, thankfulness, I never saw in any one, and 
his perfect readiness for heaven made us feel that it 
was the less likely that his life would be given back 
to us ; and you may imagine, though I had scarcely 
known him before, how very close a cousinly tie has 
been drawn in these hours of anguish. He received 
the Sacrament on Thursday. On Friday there was 
a very slight improvement, but more delirium. For 
four days and nights he lay under a vast poultice of 
snow, which had to be replenished as often as it melted, 
and making snow with a machine has been perhaps 
the most laborious part of my duties. Each night I 
have watched for the faint streak of dawn, wondering 
if he could live till morning, and feeling as if I were 
wrestling for his life. Yesterday morning, when I 


knew his parents were coming, it was quite an agony of 
suspense ; but they arrived safe, and I was able to give 
him up living to his mother's care. I have had every 
day to write to Mrs. Fraser Tytler, to whose daughter 
Christina he had not been engaged a month, and of 
whom he has thought touchingly and incessantly^ 

" I am not much knocked up, but thankful even for 
myself that Mrs. Augustus Liddell is come, as my 
cough is so much increased by having to be so often 
out on the balcony at night, up to my elbows in the 
snow manufacturing. I do not think I could have held 
out much longer, and then I do not know what would 
have become of Edward." 

11 April 17. Last Sunday I had so much more 
cough, and was so much knocked up with my week's 
nursing, that kind Lady Marian Alford insisted on 
taking me early on Monday in her own carriage to 
Albano for change. It was like travelling with the 
Queen, everything so luxurious, charming rooms, and 
perfect devotion everywhere to ' la gran donna da bene, 
her personal charm affecting all classes equally. 

" Lady Marian had a very pleasant party at Albano, 
Lord and Lady Bagot and their daughter, Mr. Story, 1 
Miss Boyle, 2 Miss Hattie Hosmer, 3 and Mr. 4 and Lady 
Emily Russell. The first afternoon we drove along 
the lake to Lariccia, where we went all over the 
wonderful old Chigi palace, and then on to the Cesarini 

1 William Story, the sculptor and poet. 

2 Miss Mary Boyle, celebrated for her dramatic powers. 

3 The sculptress. 

4 Afterwards Ambassador at Berlin. 


garden at Genzano, overhanging the lake of Nemi. 
The next morning we went to the Parco di Colonna 
and Marino, and then in a tremendous thunderstorm to 
Frascati, where we dined in the old Campana Palace, 
returning to Rome in the evening. I like Mr. Odo 
Russell and his simple massive goodness extremely. 
I hear that Pius IX. says of him, 'Non e" un buono 

NEMI. 1 

cattolico, ma 6 un cattivissimo protestante.' Miss 
Hosmer had said to him, ' You're growing too fat : 
you ought to come out riding ; it will do you no end 
of good ; ' to which he replied in his slow way, ' No, 
I cannot come out riding.' ' And why not ? ' said Miss 
Hosmer. ' Don't you know,' he said, ' that I am very 
anxious to be made an ambassador as soon as possible, 

1 From "Days near Rome." 
VOL. III. 2 A 


and, since that is the case, I must stay working at 

" ' I like midges, for they love Venice, and they love 
humanity/ said Miss Mary Boyle. 

"On Wednesday, finding both my patients better, 
I acceded to Marcus's entreaties and went with him 
and some friends of his to Tivoli for the day. Most 
gloriously lovely was it looking! My companions 
scrambled round the waterfalls, whilst I sat and what 
Robert Peabody calls ( water-coloured ' opposite the 
Cascatelle. In the evening we went to the Villa 
d'Este and saw the sun set upon the grand old palace 
through its dark frame of cypresses. 

" This morning I went for the first time to see the 
bishops of the Council ; rather a disappointing sight, 
though they are a fine set of old men. Some of the 
American costumes are magnificent. 

11 Monday is the end of Edward's twenty-one days' 
fever, and I am still very anxious for the result. As 
he says, I feel rather, since the arrival of his parents, 
like a hen who has nursed a duckling which has 
escaped : but I go every day to look at him." 

"April 30. It is no use worrying oneself about 
the journey yet. It must always be painful and 
anxious. On returning to America, Dr. Winslow's 
last words to me were, ' Remember, if she has any 
fright, any accident, any anxiety, there will be another 
seizure,' and in so long a journey this can scarcely be 
evaded. She must have more strength before we can 
think of it. Her own earnest wish is to go to Albano 
first, but I dread those twelve miles extra. We always 

1 870] 



had this house till May 15, and hitherto there has 
been no heat. 

"On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, Mother 
was carried down by two women in her dressing-gown, 
wrapped round with shawls, to a little carriage at 


the door. They were perfectly still sunny days, no 
bronchitis to be caught. The first day we only went 
round the Pincio, the second to the Parco di San 
Gregorio, the third to the Lateran and Santa Croce : 
she chose her own two favourite drives. 

1 From "Days near Rome." 



" May 3, 1870. Walked with Miss J. Pole Carew 
and her governess from the Villa Albani to Sant' 
Agnese to look for the blood-red lily, seven feet high, 
which smells so terribly that no one is able to pick it. 
The governess (Miss Nicholson) said how the twisted 
palms carried in the 'Roman Catholic ceremonies 
seemed to her like a type of their faith. So much 
would be beautiful and impressive in the lives of the 
martyrs and the memories of the early Church, if, like 
the palms, so beautiful when they are first brought 
to Rome, they were not twisted and overladen, to the 
hiding and destruction of their original character." 


" May 8. Last Sunday we drove to the Villa Bor- 
ghese, which is now in its fullest most luxuriant summer 
green. When we came back, the Tombola was taking 
place in the Piazza del Popolo, so that gate was closed, 
and we had to go round by Porta Salara. The slight 
additional distance was too much for Mother, so that 
she has been unable to be up even in her chair for 
several days. This will show you how weak she is : 
how terrible the return journey is to look forward to. 

" She certainly never seems to realise her helpless- 
ness, or to find out that she can no longer knit or do 
the many things she is accustomed to. ... She likes 
hearing Job read, because of the analogy of sufferings, 
but she does not at all admire Job as a model of 
patience! Hymns are her delight, and indeed her 
chief occupation. She has great pleasure in the lovely 


flowers with which our poorer friends constantly supply 
us, especially in the beautiful roses and carnations 
of the faithful Maria de Bonis (the old photograph 
woman), who is as devoted as ever." 

" May 15. The weather has been perfect. In all 
our foreign or home experience I do not recollect such 
weeks of hot sunshine, yet never oppressive; such 
a delicious bracing air always. The flowers are quite 
glorious, and our poor people grateful as only 
Italians are keep the sick-room constantly supplied 
with them. 

" But, alas ! it has been a very sad week nevertheless, 
and if I once allowed myself to think of it, my heart 
would sink within me. My dearest Mother has been 
so very, very suffering; in fact, there have been very 
few hours free from acute pain, and, in spite of her 
sweet patience and her natural leaning towards only 
thanksgiving, her groans and wails have been most 
sad and the flesh indeed a burden. . . . You will easily 
imagine what it is to me to see this state of intense 
discomfort, and to be able to do nothing to relieve 
it ; for I am quite convinced that nothing can be done, 
that medicine must be avoided as much as possible 
in her worn-out system, and that we must trust 
entirely to the effect of climate and to a return- 
ing power of taking nourishment. Dr. Grigor told 
her that it was a case of most suffering paralysis, 
usually producing such dreadful impatience that he 
wondered at her powers of self-control. But from 
my sweetest Mother, we never hear one word which 
is not of perfect patience and faith and thanksgiving, 


though her prayers aloud for patience are sometimes 
too touching for us to bear. She has not been out 
for ten days, as she has really had no strength to 
bear the lifting up and down stairs, and she has seen 
nobody except our dear Mrs. Woodward and Mary 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

"Rome, May 22, 1870. The Mother can recover 
no power in her lost limbs, in which she has, never- 
theless, acute pain. Yet, deprived of every employment 
and never free from suffering, life is to her one pro- 
longed thanksgiving, and in the sunshine of her blessed 
state of outpouring gratitude for the silver linings 
of her clouds, it is not for her nurses to repine. In 
her case daily more true become the lines of Waller 

' The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.' 

But when even her short excursions to the Pincio or 
Villa Borghese produce the most intense exhaustion, no 
stranger can imagine how we can dream of attempting 
the immense homeward journey. Still, knowing her 
wonderful power of will and what it has accomplished, 
I never think anything impossible, and all minor details 
of difficulty become easier when one has a fixed point 
of what must be. We shall at any rate try to reach 
Florence, and then, if she suffers seriously and further 
progress is quite impossible, we shall be on the way 
to Lucca or Siena. If we ever do reach Holmhurst, 
of course it will be for life, which makes the leaving 
this more than second home very sad to me. 




" I have had many pleasant friends here this winter, 
especially the Pole Carews, who are a most charming 
family. Latterly also I have seen much of Mrs. 
Terry, who is a very interesting and delightful person. 
Since the world has drifted northwards, I have seen 
more of the few friends who remain, and with the 
Terrys have even accomplished a very old desire of 


going to Bracciano. It is a beautiful drive across 
the Campagna, and then comes the ascent into the 
steep old town, and under the many gates and fortalices 
of the castle, to a courtyard with painted loggias. 
Armed with an order from Princess Odescalchi, we 
went all over the rooms with their curious ugly old 

1 From " Days near Rome." 


pictures and carving, and sat in the balconies looking 
down upon the beautiful transparent Bracciano lake, 
twenty miles in circumference, all the mountains re- 
flected as in a mirror. Mrs. Terry is charming : after 
we had talked of sad subjects she said ' But we have 
spoken enough of these things ; now let us talk of 
butterflies and flowers.' In spite of all other work, 
I have sold 75 worth of sketches this winter, chiefly 
old ones, so am nearly able to pay our rent." 


"Rome, May 26, 1870. The Mother is better for 
the great heat, thermometer standing at 85, but Rome 
always has such a fresh air that heat is never 
overpowering, and in our delightful apartments we 
never suffer, as we can have so much variety, and if 
Mother does not go out, she is moved to the balcony 
overhanging the little garden at the back, where she 
sits and has her tea under a vine-covered pergola. 
If we are permitted to reach Holmhurst, I fear all 
will not be benefit. I much dread the difficulty there 
will be in keeping Lea from being wholly engrossed 
again by household affairs, and I cannot see how 
Mother could do without her almost constant attend- 
ance, which she has now. Also, we shall greatly miss 
the large bedroom opening into a sitting-room, where 
I can pursue my avocations, able to be with her at the 
faintest call, and yet not quite close to the groans. . . . 
But all this is long, long looking forward : there seems 
such a gulf between us and England. . . . Yet we 
think of attempting the move next week, and on Friday 
sent off six large boxes with the accumulations of many 




years, retaining also a list of what must be sent back 
if we never reach England. 

"The Signorina and Samuccia, Clementina and 
Louisa, Rosina and Madame da Monaca, have all been 
to say good-bye, and all kiss Mother with tears on 


taking leave, overcome by her helpless state and sweet 
look of patience." 

" May 29. Emmie Penrhyn's letter was an especial 
pleasure to the Mother, and what she said of the 
centurion's servant, grievously 'tormented.' Certainly 
she is grievously tormented. The pain really never 
ceases, and the individual motion of the helpless 


arm is terrible. ... I think with misery of the 
disappointment the return to Holmhurst will be to 
her. She cannot realise that it will not be, as it has 
always been, the home of her well months, talks of 
how she shall ' frolic out into the garden,' &c. I feel 
if we ever reach it, it is going, not to England, but to 
Holmhurst for life. . . . We have been to the ceme- 
tery under Caius Cestius, and the sentinel allowed her 
little carriage to pass across the turf, so that she was 
able to look once more upon the well-known grave, 
embosomed in its roses and aloes. Yesterday we 
went to take leave of the old Miss Haigs at their 
beautiful villa. The three old ladies embraced Mother, 
and presented her, like three good fairies, one with 
roses, another with geraniums, and the third with two 
ripe strawberries." 

" Florence, June i. Monday was a terribly fatiguing 
day, but Mother remained in bed, and was very com- 
posed, only anxious that nothing should occur to pre- 
vent our departure, and to prove to us that she was well 
enough. At five Mrs. Woodward came and sat by her 
whilst Lea and I were occupied with last preparations. 
At 7 P.M. Mother was carried down and went off in 
a little low carriage with Mrs. Woodward and Lea, 
and I followed in a large carriage with Miss Finucane 
and the luggage. There was quite a collection of 
our poorer friends to see Mother off and kiss hands. 
At the railway the faithful Maria de Bonis was wait- 
ing, and she and Mrs. Woodward stayed with Mother 
and saw her carried straight through to the railway 
coupt which was secured for us. We felt deeply 



taking leave of the kindest of friends, who has been 
such a comfort and blessing to us, certainly, next to 
you, the chief support of Mother's later years. ' Oh, 
how beautiful it will be when the gates which are now 
ajar are quite open ! ' were her last words to Mother. 
"The carriage was most comfortable. . . . Mother 


slept a little, and though she wailed occasionally, was 
certainly no worse than on ordinary nights. The 
dawn was lovely over the rich Tuscan valleys, so 
bright with corn and vines, tall cypresses, and high 
villa roofs. She was carried straight through to a 
carriage, and soon reached the succursale of the 

1 From " Florence." 


Alleanza, where the people know us and are most kind. 
In the afternoon she slept, and I drove up to Fiesole, 
where I had not been for twelve years, with Mr. and 
Mrs. Cummings, American friends." 

" Bologna, June 5. I fear, after my last, you will 
be grievously disappointed to hear of us as no farther 
on our way. We can, however, only tell from hour 
to hour how soon we may be able to get on, and I find 
it entirely useless to make plans of any kind, as we are 
sure not to be able to keep them. On Tuesday a 
great thunderstorm prevented our leaving Florence, 
and on Wednesday and Thursday Mother was in such 
terrible suffering that it was impossible to think of it. 
On Friday evening there was a rally, and we came on 
at once, Mrs. Dallas helping us through the difficulties 
of the Florence Station, and Mr. and Mrs. Cummings 
following us here. I think I mentioned that Dr. Grigor 
said travelling at night, when there was no sun, was the 
only chance of her reaching England alive. Mother 
begs I will tell Charlotte that ' No words can describe 
her sufferings or my anxieties, but that she has been 
brought through wonderfully hitherto, and that she 
still hopes to reach England in time} " 


"Bologna, June 5. Mr. Cummings says the great 
Church of S. Petronio here reminds him of the great 
Church universal so vast the space, and so many 
chapels branching off, all so widely divided that in each a 
separate sermon and doctrine might be preached with- 
out distressing its neighbour, while yet all meet in the 



centre in one common whole, the common Church ot 

"An old American lady in the train had passed a 
summer at Vallombrosa. She said it was a place 


where to live was life and where one could be happy 
when one was unhappy" 


" Susa,June 8, 1870. The Mother continued in a 
most terribly suffering state all the time we were at 

1 From " Northern Italy." 



[l8 7 

Bologna agonies of pain which gave no rest. Yester- 
day afternoon it was so intense that she implored me 
to try the railway as a counter-irritant, and we set off 
at half-past ten at night. But the train shook fearfully, 
and the journey was absolute torture to her. We have 
never had such a painful time. Lea and I were obliged 
to sit on the floor by turns, holding the poor hand, 
and trying to animate her courage to bear up, but her 
cries were terrible. We reached Turin at 5 A.M., 
where, in spite of all promises to the contrary, she had 
to be carried all round the station ; but fortunately 
for the next hour the train was easier and she suffered 
less. She was carried by two men out of the station, 
and down the wet muddy road here, where she has a 
good room, and soon fell asleep from exhaustion. We 
arrived at 6.30 A.M., and shall stay till to-morrow 
morning. Her state is certainly one of incomparably 
more suffering than at Rome, and she feels the change 
of climate dreadfully. " 

) Jime 9. Last night, to my great 
relief, Colonel and Mrs. Cracroft and Miss Wilson 
arrived at Susa, and were the greatest possible help 
to us. We had obtained a permesso for the Mother 
to be taken straight through to the Fell railway car- 
riage, and her little procession started at 7 A.M., 
and she was carried from her bed to her seat in 
the railway. The Cracrofts sat all round us in the 
carriage, which was much better than strangers, and 
Miss Wilson was most kind in keeping her hands 
bathed with eau de Cologne, &c. She suffered much 
for the first two hours, but the train was wonderfully 


smooth and easy, so that really the dreaded Mont Cenis 
was the least distressing part of the journey. About 
the middle of the pass she revived a little, and noticed 
the flowers, which were lovely such gentianellas, 
auriculas, large golden lilies, &c. At S. Michel she 
bore the being carried about tolerably, so we were 
able to come on here, and arrived about four. Mother 
desires I will say to Charlotte, ' Hitherto the Lord 
hath helped me.'" 

" Macon y June 12. No farther on our way than 
this. Mother was rather less suffering on Friday, and 
she bore the move from Aix and the dreaded change 
at Culoz better than we expected, but in the latter 
part of our four hours' journey she was fearfully ex- 
hausted, and arrived here (at the hotel looking out on 
the Saone and the wide-stretching poplar plains) in a 
sad state. ... It is impossible to move on yet. 

" Yesterday, while she was sleeping, I drove to Cluny, 
the queen of French abbeys. A great deal is left, 
and it is a most interesting and beautiful place. I also 
saw Lamartine's little chateau of Monceaux, described 
in his 'Confidences.' All his things and his library 
were being sold under the chestnut-trees in front of the 
house. I just came up in time to buy the old apple- 
green silk quilt 1 from the bed of his saint-like mother, 
described in ' Le Manuscrit de ma Mere.' " 

" Montbard,June 13. Mother was so anxious to at- 
tempt coming on, that we left Macon at half-past eleven 

1 Now at Holmhurst. 



[I8 7 

to-day, arriving here at four. To our dismay, when 
she had been taken out of the carriage and laid flat upon 
the platform, and the train had gone off, we found the 
station hotel closed. However, she was well carried on 
a chair down a lane to the so-called H6tel de la Poste 
an old-fashioned farm-house in a garden of roses ; 


everything clean, pretty, and quaint; no sound but 
cocks and hens crowing and cackling ; delicious farm- 
house bread, butter, and milk. Montbard is the place 
where Buffon lived in a very picturesque old chateau 
and gardens. Mother seems revived by the intense 
1 From " South-Eastern France." 

' 870] 


quiet and fresh country air. The old landlord and his 
wife are quite pictures such clever, kind old faces, 
reminding one of La Sarte in ' Citoyenne Jacqueline.' " 

"Paris, June 14. This morning was like a respite! 
Mother lay so quiet that I was actually able to draw 


as in the old days, which now seem in the far distance ; 
and I took a little carriage to the lovely cloistered 
chateau of Fontenay, which I had long wished to see, 
and where I had luncheon with the charming owner, 
Madame de Montgolfier, and her two sons, people who 

1 From "South- Eastern France. 1 


2 B 


own immense factories in the valley and devote their 
whole lives to the good of their workpeople. On my 
return I found Mother so far better that we could 
prepare her for the one o'clock express. She had a 
bath-chair to the station, and bore it well; but she 
was terribly tried by the five hours' journey, and 
being very ill carried at Paris, arrived at the hotel 
utterly prostrated. We hope to go on to-morrow, but 
all is most uncertain." 

"Dover Station, June 16. We are here, with 
intense thankfulness. Mother looked so ill and aged 
this morning we did not hope to move her, but she 
had a sudden rally in the middle of the day, so at 
6 P.M. we were able to prepare her, and had her 
carried through the station to a carriage before the 
mob of people came. . . . We dreaded arriving at 
Calais, but she was carried in an arm-chair to the 
steamer, which was fortunately at the near quay and 
no steps. Of course our little procession was the 
last to arrive, and every place was taken; but Miss 
Charlotte Cushman, 1 who had comfortably established 
herself in the cabin, with a calm dignity which is 
irresistible at once directed the men to put Mother 
down in her place, and went up on deck. 

" The sea was like glass lovely moonlight and sun- 
rise, and we seemed to be at Dover before we left 
Calais. A sailor carried Mother in his arms to the 
railway carriage, in which we were allowed to go as 
far as the station platform, and here we are. A porter 
has fetched cups of tea, and we have four hours to wait. 

1 The well-known and admirable American actress. 


" We shall be glad of a visit from you as early as 
you like to come next week. I should not like you to 
defer coming long, as, though I have no special cause 
for apprehension, still in Mother's critical state every 
day is precious. You will find her terribly altered 
in all respects, though the mind and memory are 
quite clear at the moment. None of her doctors give 
any hope whatever of amendment ; but you will under- 
stand the position much better when you see it, only 
I am anxious that you should help me to face what 
is inevitable, instead of striving after what cannot be. 
Let us seek to alleviate suffering, not struggle after 
an impossible cure which may hasten the end." 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

" Holmhurst, June 17. I know you will truly 
rejoice with and for us that we have arrived in 
safety, and that my poor suffering Mother has her 
great wish of seeing her little home once more. You 
will imagine what the journey has been, as she is 
now utterly helpless, nearly blind, and never free 
from acute suffering in the spine and arm, which is 
often agony. At Rome it was generally thought 
quite impossible that she could survive the journey, 
and nothing but her faith and patience, and her self- 
control, have enabled us to get through it. We 
never could make a plan, but just seized the happy 
moment when she was a shade better, and at once 
pushed on a step. She was, of course, carried every- 
where, and people were wonderfully kind ; we had 
always somebody to go with us and smooth the 
difficulties of the railway stations either old friends 


or people who were at my lectures at Rome and met 
us accidentally. 

" When we arrived, all the old servants were terribly 
overcome to see their beloved mistress carried in so 
changed and helpless. She is still very ill, but un- 
speakably thankful to be here, and to feel that the 
journey is done. My life is, and must continue to 
be, one of constant watching." 

" July 21. Our letters are now our only intercourse 
with the world beyond the gates of Holmhurst, which 
I never leave ; but indeed I can seldom leave the house 
before 8 P.M., when I walk round the fields while 
Mother is prepared for the night. Though it is now 
the only thing I ever think of, it is very difficult 
to occupy and cheer her days, for she cannot bear 
any consecutive reading. Sometimes I read, and 
tell her what I have read as a kind of story. She 
is seldom up before 3 P.M., and then is carried down 
to the lawn in her dressing-gown, and up again at 
four, when she is sometimes able to look at a book for 
a few minutes. That which is oftenest in her hand 
is the little ' Invalid's Friend ' which you gave her, and 
she desires me to tell you how often she finds comfort 
in it. . . ' . For the last fortnight we have been entirely 
alone, which has been really best for her, as, though 
she has enjoyed seeing those she loved, each departure 
has made her worse. 

"I write much at my ' Walks in Rome' in her 
room, and my ancient history is so imperfect I have 
plenty to study, which acts as a sort of mental 


From my JOURNAL (The Green Book). 

"June 26. My darling often talks to me in her 
hymns. To-night, when I left her, she said with her 
lovely sweetness, ' Good-night, darling. 

" Go, sleep like closing flowers at night, 
And Heaven your morn will bless." ' 

" ' I never wish to leave you/ she said the other day. 
' I never wish for death ; always remember that. I 
should like to stay with you as long as I can.' And 
another day, ' I must call you " my daughter-son," as 
Mrs. Colquhoun did hers : as long as I have you, I sup- 
pose I can bear anything ; but if you were taken away, 
or if I had never had you, my life would be indeed 
desolate : I could not have lived on. ... I try so not 
to groan when you are here, you must not grudge me 
a few groans when you are out of the room.' " 

"July l %- 'I na d such a sweet dream of your 
Aunt Lucy last night. I thought we were together 
again, and I said, " How I do miss you ! " and she said 
she was near me. I suppose I had been thinking of 

" Saints in glory perfect made 
Wait thine escort through the shade." 

I think perhaps I had been thinking of that. Dear 
Aunt Lucy, how she would have grieved to see me 

"July 19. 'Yes, I know the psalms; many in 
your Uncle Julius's version too. Many a time it 


keeps me quiet for hours to know and repeat them. 
I should never have got through my journey if I 
had not had so many to repeat and to still the 
impatience.' " 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

" Holmhurst, July 31, 1870. I continue to work on 
steadily at my book in the sick-room. I have just got 
Murray's Roman Handbook, and am amazed to see 
how much better it is than I expected ; but I am glad 
I have not seen it before, as, though I have already 
given even all his newest information, I have told it 
so oddly differently. 

" The sweet Mother continues much the same. She 
is carried out each fine afternoon to sit for an hour 
near the weeping ash- tree on the lawn, and enjoys 
the sunshine and flowers. ... In this quiet garden, 
and never going beyond the gates, everything seems 
very far off, and I am beginning to have quite a sym- 
pathy with the hermits, and to wonder the race does 
not continue: it is certainly more reasonable than 
that of the monks. A great peace seems to have 
fallen upon us. As I see my helpless Mother's quiet 
happiness, and share it, I think of Richard Crashaw's 

' How many unknown worlds there are 

Of comforts, which Thou hast in keeping ! 
How many thousand mercies there 
In Pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping ! 
Happy she who has the art 
To awake them 
And to take them 
Home, and lodge them in her heart.' " 


From my JOURNAL (The Green Book). 

"August 8. It is inexpressibly touching to me 
how Mother now seems to have an insight into my 
past feelings which she never had before, and to 
understand and sympathise with childish sufferings 
which she never perceived at the time, or from which 
she would have turned aside if she had perceived 
them. To-day, after her dinner, she said most touch- 
ingly, watching till every one went away and calling 
me close to her pillow ' I want to make my confession 
to you, darling. I often feel I have never been half 
tender enough to you. I feel it now, and I should 
like you to know it. You are such a comfort and 
blessing to me, dearest, and I thought perhaps I might 
die suddenly, and never have told you so. I cannot 
bear your being tied here, and yet I do not know 
how I could do without you, you are so great a 
blessing to me.' 

"And oh! in the desolate future what a comfort 
these few words will contain ! But I said ' No, darling, 
I am not tied : you know it is just what I like. I know 
you could not do without me, but then I could not do 
without you, so it is just the same for both of us.' " 

"August 26. To-day is the anniversary of my 
adoption, what Mother used to call my Hurstmonceaux 
birthday. She remembered it when I went to her, 
and said touchingly ' God be thanked for having 
given me my child, for having preserved him, for 
having strengthened him. May he live to His glory, 
and may I die to His praise. . . . Pray that He may 


forgive the past, watch over the present, and guide 
the future.' Later she said ' It is very seldom that 
a woman's future is settled at thirty-five, as mine was. 

I was not only a widow, but my adopting a child 
showed to all the world that I should never marry 
again. ... I can only make a meditation/ she said ; 

I 1 have no strength to make a prayer. ... I have 
long been obliged to pray in snatches in moments. 
... I am so glad that I know so many psalms, 
hymns, and collects; they are such a comfort to me 
now. I could think of nothing more, but these I 
dwell upon. . . . Sometimes when I can think of 
nothing else I take the Lord's Prayer, and lie still to 
make a meditation upon each separate clause.' When 
I left her at night she said fervently 'Good-night, 
my own dear love, my blessing : may I be your bless- 
ing, as you are mine.' " 

In our quiet life, the news of the war in 
France, the siege of Paris, &c., reached us like 
far-off echoes. My mother cared little to hear 
of it, but shared with me in anxiety as to the 
fate of the excellent people we had so lately left 
at Montbard and Fontenay, which were over- 
run by the Prussians. On September 8 the 
Empress Eugenie took refuge at Hastings, 
and two days after walked up the hill past 
our gate. She was joined at Hastings by the 
Prince Imperial. I little thought then that I 
should afterwards know him so well. 



" Sept. 10, 1870. Lea has just been saying, ' You 
may go and count the trees to-day, for I've nothing 
for you for dinner. The butcher's never been, good- 
for-nothing fellow ! he's gone gawking after that 
Empress, I'll be bound.' ' 

Almost all my Mother's nieces and many old 
friends came to see her in the summer, gene- 
rally staying only two or three days, but her 
dear cousin, Charlotte Leycester, came for the 
whole of September. While she was here at 
Holmhurst I was persuaded to go away for 
two days, and went to see Dean Alford at his 
cottage of Vine's Gate in the Kentish Hills. 
He was more charming than ever, and more 
eccentric, never wearing stockings, and shoes 
only when he went out. I was miserable, in 
my short absence, with anxiety, which cost me 
far more than the refreshment of change could 
replace ; but I was led to go to see the Dean 
by one of those strange presentiments for which 
I have never been able to account. It was my 
last sight of this dear friend, with whom I have 
been more really intimate than with perhaps* 
any one else, in spite of the great difference of 
age and position. Dean Alford died in the 
following winter, but it was at a time when, in 



[l8 7 

my own intense desolation, all minor sorrows 
fell dumb and dead. But his grave, in St. 
Martin's Churchyard at Canterbury, is always 
a very sacred spot to me. 

I must record a visit which we received soon 


after my return home, as it led to a friendship 
which was one of the great pleasures of many 
following years. One morning, as I was sitting 
in my Mother's room as usual, a card with 
" Mrs. Grove, Oakhurst," was brought up to 
me, and, as I opened the drawing-room door, I 


saw an old lady with the very sweetest and 
dearest face I ever set eyes upon, in a primitive- 
looking hat and apron, and with a basket on 
her arm, and I fell in love with her at once. 
She came often afterwards to see my Mother, 
who greatly appreciated her ; and after my 
Mother's sweet life passed away, it is difficult 
to say how much of my home interest was 
associated with Oakhurst, with the ready sym- 
pathy and old-fashioned knowledge of this dear 
Mrs. Grove, and with her daughter, Mrs. 
Baillie Hamilton, and her two grand-daughters, 
now Mrs. Spencer Smith and Mrs. Hamilton 
Seymour. Alas ! as I write this, 1 the dear 
Mrs. Grove, in her great age, is herself rapidly 
fading heavenwards but so gently, so sur- 
rounded by the love which her own loving- 
kindness has called forth, that death is indeed 
coming as a friend, gently and tenderly leading 
her into the visible presence of the Saviour, in 
whose invisible presence she has so long lived 
and served. 

JOURNAL (The Green Book). 

" Holmhnrst, Oct. 20, 1870. Mother said to-day, 
' I always think that walking through the Roman 
picture-galleries is like walking through the Old and 

1 In April 1880. 


New Testament with the blessed company of apostles 
and martyrs beside one. ... I am so fond of that 
prayer " for all sorts and conditions of men/' not only 
for my invalid state, but it is all so appropriate to the 
present time the petition for peace and unity, &c.' " 

" Oct. 23, Sunday. ' Alas ! another Sunday in bed/ 
said Mother this morning. 

" ' But, darling, you need not regret it ; all the days 
are Sundays to you.' 

" ' Yes ; but to-day I woke early, and have said all 
my little Sunday hymns and psalms.' 

" Truly with her, ' Les prieres de la nuit font la 
serenite du jour.' " 1 

" Oct. 26. ' My dear child is never cross to me, 
never; and always appears just at the very moment I 
want anything.' " 

To Miss WRIGHT. 

" HolmJiurst, Oct. 28, 1870. I am so glad you have 
been here, and can fancy our perfectly quiet, eventless 
life, the coming and going in the Mother's sick-room, 
and her gentle happiness in all the little pleasures 
which are spared to her. Since you were here she has 
been not so well, from the wet and cold, I suppose, 
the sight dimmer and the other powers weaker; but 
the symptoms are ever varying, and, when it is thus, 
I almost never leave her watch her sleeping and try 
to amuse her waking. 

"To-day my absent hour was sadly engaged in 

1 Diderot, " Sarrasins." 


attending the funeral of my dear old friend, Mrs. 
Dixon, 1 who died quite peacefully last Saturday, a long 
illness ending in two days of merciful unconsciousness. 
She was buried at Ore, in Emma Simpkinson's grave. 
Many deeply mourn her, for few were more sincere 
and cordial, more affectionate and sympathising." 

JOURNAL (The Green Book). 

" Nov. I, 1870. My darling has had two months of 
comparative freedom from pain, with many hours of 
real pleasure, in which she was often carried down and 
sat out in her bath-chair amongst the flower-beds in 
the sunshine. Sitting under the ash-tree shade, she 
has been able to see many friends Mrs. Wagner, Mrs. 
Grove, old Mrs. Vansittart Neale at ninety, and Lady 
Waldegrave. Charlotte Leycester was here for six 
weeks, and the Mother was then so far better that it 
was a great source of enjoyment to both the cousins. 
Since then she has ailed more frequently, and has 
had occasional recurrence of the old pain in her arm. 
I have sat constantly writing in her room, laying aside 
' Walks in Rome ' for a time, and devoting myself to 
writing the Family Memorials. For the dear Mother 
has wished me to continue the work she began long 
ago of writing the life of Augustus and Julius Hare. 
I represented that, as one of these died before I was 
born, and I had never appreciated the other as she 
had done, it would be impossible for me to do this, 
unless she would permit me to make her, who had 

1 Eldest sister of my old Harrow master, and of Emma Simpkinson, 
often mentioned in these Memoirs. In my childhood she lived at 


been the sunshine of my own life, the central figure of 
the picture. At first she laughed at the idea, but, after 
a day or two, she said that, as, with the sole exception 
of Charlotte Leycester, all who had shared her earlier 
life had passed away, she could not oppose my wish 
that the simple experience of her own life, and God's 
guidance in her case, might, if I thought it could be so, 
be made useful for others. And, as she has accustomed 
herself to this thought, she has lately taken real pleasure 
in it. She laughs at what she calls my ' building her 
mausoleum in her lifetime,' but has almost grown, I 
think, to look upon her own life and her own experience 
as if it were that of another in whom she was interested, 
and to read it and hear it in the same way. She has 
given me many journals and letters of various kinds 
which I might use, and has directed the arrangement of 
others. I have already written the two earliest chap- 
ters of her married life, and read most of them to her, 
but she stopped me at last, saying that they interested 
her too deeply. She frequently asks now ' Are you 
writing the Memorials, or only "Walks in Rome"?' 
and it is a proof how clear her understanding still is, 
that some weeks ago she wisely directed me, if the work 
was ever carried out, to evade all wearying discussion 
by consulting no one, and that I should on no account 
show it to any one of the family, especially the Stan- 
leys, till it was finished, when they might judge of it 
as a whole. 

" Sometimes the dear Mother has herself been able 
to write some of her ' Ricordi/ as she calls them, and, 
with her trembling hand, has filled a whole little 
volume with the recollections of her youth, but this 


has often been too much for her. . . . After her tea at 
four o'clock, I have generally read some story to her 
till she has gone to bed, and after that a chapter and 
some hymns. There is a passage in one of George 
Eliot's autobiographical sonnets, in which, referring 
to her mother, she speaks of ' the benediction of her 
gaze ' ; how often have I experienced this ! " 

" Nov. 4. Last night I read to the Mother Luke xvii. 
and a hymn on ' Rest ' which she asked for. When 
I was going to wish her good-night she said ' I 
do hope, darling, I am not like the ungrateful lepers. 
I try to be always praising God, but I know that I can 
never praise Him enough for His many, many mercies 
to me.' I could not but feel, in the alarm afterwards, 
if my dearest Mother never spoke to me again, what 
beautiful last words those would have been, and how 
characteristic of her. Oh, goodness in life brings us 
near to God : not death ! not death ! 

"At 2 P.M. I was awakened by the dreadful sound 
which has haunted me ever since the night of March 12 
in the Via Gregoriana of Lea rushing along the pas- 
sage and flinging open the door ' Come directly ' 
no time for more words and of running through the 
dark gallery and finding the terrible change another 
paralytic seizure calling up John and sending him off 
to Battle for the doctor, and kneeling by the bedside, 
consoling her if possibly conscious, and watching for 
the faint dawn of visible life, that the first words might 
be tender ones, the first look one of love, . . . and it 
was so that my darling's first words were something 
tender, indefinite, but spoken to me. The entire uncon- 


sciousness was not long. When the doctor arrived the 
face was almost natural, but he saw that it had been 
a regular seizure. By 8 A.M. she was nearly herself 
again, and anxious to know what could have happened. 
She had been frightened by seeing the doctor. She 
appeared to have no pain, and there is no additional 
injury to the powers. To-day has been a constant 
watching, rather a warding off from her of any pos- 
sible excitement than anything else. ... In all the 
anguish of anxiety, I cannot be thankful enough for 
what we have, especially the freedom from pain." 

" Nov. 9. No great change a happy painless state, 
the mind very feeble, its power gone, but peaceful, 
loving, full of patience, faith, and thankfulness." 

" Nov. 1 6. And since I wrote last, the great, "the 
most unutterable desolation, so long looked for, so 
often warded off, has come upon me. Oh ! while 
they can still be attained, let me gather up the precious 
fragments that remain. 

" On Thursday the loth my darling was much better, 
though her mind was a little feeble. I felt then, as I 
feel a thousand times now, how extraordinary people 
were who spoke of the trial my darling's mental feeble- 
ness would be to me. It only endeared her to me a 
thousandfold her gentle confidence, her sweet cling- 
ing to me to supply the words and ideas which no 
longer came unsought, made her only more unspeak- 
ably lovable. On that day I remember that my 
darling mentioned several times that she heard beau- 
tiful music. This made no impression on me then. 


"Friday the nth, I sat, as usual, all morning in 
her room correcting my book. I forget whether it 
was that morning or the next that my darling on 
waking from sleep said that she had had such a 
pleasant dream of her childhood and Adderley and 
' old Lady Corbet,' who first taught her to ' love what 
was beautiful.' 1 At 2 P.M. Mother was up, and sat in 
her arm-chair by the fire. She was partly dressed, 
and wore her pretty old-fashioned cap with the strings 
tied in a bow on the top of the head, and a little red 
cloak which Miss Wright had given her : I remember 
thinking she looked so pretty, and telling her so. I 
was out at first, while she wrote a little letter to 
Fanny Tatton, 2 and talked to Lea about the texts 
she had been reading. At four, she had her tea, and 
then I sat at her feet, and my darling talked most 
sweetly about all the places she had admired most in 
her life of Llangollen in her childhood, and of Capel 
Curig, of her visit to Rhianva, and of many places 
abroad, Narni with its woods and river, and more 
especially Villar in the Vaudois, of which I had been 
making a drawing, which she had desired to have set 
up that she might look at it. Then she asked to have 
one of her old journals read, and I read one of Rome, 
and she spoke of how much happiness, how many bless- 
ings, she had connected with Rome also, though much 
of suffering. She was especially bright and sunny. I 

1 "When the thoughts of youth return, fresh as the scent of new- 
gathered blossoms, to the tired old age which has so long forgotten 
them, the coming of Death is seldom very distant." OUIDA, " /;/ 

- A much-loved cousin and friend ; her mother was a Grey, and my 
Mother's first-cousin. 

VOL. III. 2 C 


remember saying to her playfully, ' Take a little notice 
of me, darling ; you do not take enough notice of me/ 
and her stroking my head and saying, 'You dear 
child/ and laughing. 

"At six o'clock my sweetest one was put to bed. 

"Afterwards I read to her a chapter in St. Luke 
' Let this cup pass from me/ &c., and sat in her room 
till half-past nine. When I went downstairs I kissed 
her and said, 'Have a good good night, darling.' I 
cannot recollect that she spoke, but I remember looking 
back as I opened the door, and seeing my sweet Mother 
lying on her side as she always did, and her dear eyes 
following me with a more than usually tender expres- 
sion as I left the room. 

" I have often thought since of a sentence in Carlyle's 
'Life of Sterling' 'Softly, as a common evening, the 
last of our evenings passed away, and no other would 
come to me for evermore.' 

"When I went upstairs again at half-past ten, I 
went, as I always did, to listen at her door, and, 
hearing a noise, went in. Terrible illness had come 
on and continued for hours. . . . The next thirty-six 
hours I never left her for an instant, and they all seem 
to me like one long terrible night. I remember very 
little distinctly, but at eight on Saturday morning she 
was certainly much better. The doctor came at ten, 
and she was able to speak to him. He looked very 
grave over the lowness of her pulse, but she continued 
better for some hours, and slept a great deal in the 
afternoon. Towards evening I thought her not so well, 
though the doctor, who came at half-past nine, con- 
sidered her state much less anxious. I was then 


possessed with the feeling that our parting was very 
near. Lea also called me downstairs to hear the 
extraordinary sound that was going on. It was indeed 
strange. It was as if hundreds of thousands of crickets 
were all chirping together. They appeared everywhere 
in swarms on the hearths downstairs. The noise was 
so great that I felt if it continued we should be driven 
out of the place : it was quite deafening; but they only 
came that night, they never were heard before, and 
the next day they had totally disappeared. 1 I per- 
suaded Lea to lie down on her bed, where she soon 
fell asleep. All through the night I sat by my darling 
on the pillow. I think the last thing she said was that 
the other arm, the well arm, pained her very much, 
and we feared paralysis, but more pressing symptoms 
diverted attention. At half-past one I called Lea again. 
I shall never know in this world whether my Mother 
was really conscious, if she even knew anything either 
of her own great physical suffering, or of what passed 
that night. I believe God helped me to say and do 
all she would have wished. Each hour I was more 
sure of what was coming. Towards dawn, kneeling on 
the bed, I said some of the short prayers in the Visita- 
tion of the Sick, but she was then fading rapidly, and 
at last I repeated the hymn ' How bright those glorious 
spirits shine,' which we had always agreed was never 
to be used except as the solemn sign that our parting 

1 This is said often to happen in case of a death. At Holmhurst it 
was most remarkable. They never appeared after that night till the 
night of October 18, 1882, when my dear old nurse was dying. I have 
been laughed at for narrating this, but the noise of crickets at a death 
is spoken of in Ecclesiastes xii. 5 "And the grasshopper shall be a 
burden, because man goeth to his long home" 


was surely come. I am not sure if my darling knew 
that she was dying before : I am sure, if she could still 
hear, that she knew it then. I am sure that she was 
conscious at the end and that she speechlessly took 
leave of us. Her expression was calm and serene, but 
very grave, as if she realised for the first time that I 
might not travel with her into the solitude she was 
entering. It was about a quarter of an hour before 
the end that all suffering ceased, her paralysed side 
seemed to become quite well ; the lame hand, which 
had been so tightly clenched since the I3th of March, 
unfolded then upon the 1 3th of November, and gently 
met the other in prayer. The eyes were closing, 
but opened once more as a look a look of youth and 
radiance, stole over the beloved features at the last, 
when there was no struggle, only just a gentle sigh or 
two. Lea, who was leaning over the bed on the other 
side, held her spectacles to the mouth. There was no 
breath. I could scarcely believe that she was gone. 
I still held her in my arms. But oh ! in my unutterable 
desolation I could give God thanks that the end was 
like this. The first stroke of the church-bell sounded 
as she passed into the real life. 

" When the sweet eyes closed and the dear face lost 
its last shadow of colour, I kissed my own Mother 
for the last time and came away. The first snow- 
flakes of winter were falling then. They do not 
signify now : no snow or cold can ever signify any 

" But oh ! the agony, the anguish ! 

"And since then her precious earthly form has 
been lying, with her hands folded on her breast as 


if she were praying the dear lame hand quite well 
noiv. The room is draped with white and filled with 
flowers. Two large white camellias stand at the 
head of the bed and overshadow her pillow, and on 
the table, draped with white, are her own particular 
objects, her bronze wolf, her little gold tray with her 
spectacles, smelling-bottle, &c., and all her special 
hymn-books. At first when I went in, in my great 
agony, I did not draw down the sheet. But now I 
draw it down and look at my dearest one. There is 
a look of unearthly serene repose upon the worn 
features, which is almost too beautiful. 

" ' Days without night, joys without sorrow, sanctity 
without sin, chanty without stain, possession without 
fear, satiety without envyings, communication of joys 
without lessening, and they shall dwell in a blessed 
country, where an enemy never entered, and from 
whence a friend never went away.' 1 

" But yet oh my darling ! my darling ! " 


"Sunday morning, Nov. 13. My darling Mother 
has entered into the real life. 

"She grew gradually weaker hour by hour, and 
I think she suffered less. She knew me always, and 
liked to keep her eyes constantly fixed upon me, but 
she could not speak. At half-past nine, she seemed 
sinking, and I repeated over to her, as she desired me 
to do when she was dying, the hymn ' How bright 
those glorious spirits shine.' I think she heard it. ... 

1 Jeremy Taylor. 


Soon after she opened her eyes and gave me a long, 
long look of her own perfect lovingness, then turned 
to Lea, to me again, and we heard a few gentle sighs. 
I had just time to ring the bell close to my hand as 
I sat on the pillow, and as John and Harriet 1 (who 
had been waiting in the passage) passed sobbing into 
the room and stood at the foot of the bed, my sweet 
darling gently breathed her last in my arms, once 
more quite at the last opening her eyes, with a 
look of perfect bliss, as if gazing at something beyond 
us. It was so gentle a breathing out of her spirit, 
we scarcely knew when it was over. She died in my 
arms, with my kiss upon her forehead, at half-past ten. 
I know how tenderly my Mother's dearest, most 
tenderly loved friend feels for me, and that I need 
not ask her to pray for my Mother's poor child 

" Nov. 14. It seems so strange to look out of the 
window and see the same sheep feeding in the same 
green meadows, the same flowers blooming, and yet 
such a change over all. I feel as if it were 1 who 
had died yesterday. 

" What a long, long day it was ! A thousand times 
I was on the point of running into the room to say 
some little loving word to her who has been the re- 
cipient of every thought, every pleasure for so many, 
many years, and then the crushing blank, the annihi- 
lation came all afresh. Indeed, I feel it afresh every 
quarter of an hour, and when I am calmed after one 
thing in which my great desolation is especially pre- 

1 Harriet Bentley, Lea's niece her much-attached housemaid. 


sented to me, something else calls it all forth again. Oh, 
my darling ! my darling ! can it be ? oh ! how can it be ? 

" The dear earthly form lies with its hands sweetly 
folded as if she were praying. I go in often. I am 
always going in ; but it does not remind me of her, 
though it is most peaceful, and the servants and others 
have the greatest comfort from looking at it. 

" It is as a dream that yesterday morning, quite after 
it was over, I could say ' The day before yesterday my 
darling did this, my darling said that.' On Friday 
she was so bright, so happy, only her memory a little 
astray, but I was already forming a thousand little 
schemes for supplying this lost power, so that it should 
not be apparent to others, and to me nothing, I felt, 
could ever matter if the sunshine of my dear Mother's 
sweet presence was with me under any change." 

" Tuesday ', Nov. 15. Your most dear letter has come. 
. . . How much, even in the first anguish of my deso- 
lation, I have felt what it would be to you also. You 
will always be most tenderly entwined with her sacred 
memory; indeed, I can scarcely think of you apart. For 
the last few years especially your companionship has 
been her greatest joy, and in your absence she has 
never passed many hours without speaking of you, 
never any, I think, without thinking of you. The grief 
she most dreaded was that she might have to mourn 
for you, for I think she rightly felt that great as the 
sorrow would be your physical powers would enable 
you to bear the separation better than she could have 

" This morning I feel a little better, and can dwell 


more upon my darling's being perfected, upon the 
restoration of all her powers, upon her reunion to 
those she loved in former times of her life ; and I have 
a perfect treasure-store in my journals for years of her 
sacred words of blessing, and advice, and thought for 
me, many of them, I know, intended to be my com- 
fort now. 

" I will send you many of the letters about her. I 
wonder why people should dread letters of sympathy. 
To me the letters are nothing, but what I long for is 
not to hear that people sympathise with me, but to 
know how they loved her. 

" To-day it is thick snow. Oh ! she would have 
been so ill ; now she is not ill." 

" Tuesday evening, Nov. 15. To-day a change came 
over the dear face a look of unspeakable repose and 
beauty such as I never saw on any face before. The 
servants told me of it, and so it was; it is the most 
wonderful expression serene, solemn, holy beauty. 

"All the letters are a great not comfort nothing 
can ever be that, but I like to see how she was loved, 
and I look forward to them. There were thirty to-day, 
and yet I thought no one could know. What comes 
home to one is simple sympathy. One cannot help 
envying the people who can be comforted in real sorrow 
by what one may call Evangelical topics. It seems 
so perfectly irrelative to hear that 'man is born to 
trouble/ that 'it is God that chasteneth,' &c. 

" I recollect now that on Saturday morning I was 
obliged to send off some proof- sheets. 1 She asked 

1 Of "Walks in Rome." 


what I was doing, and then said, ' I shall so enjoy 
reading it when it is all finished, but I must have my 
little desk out then, because I shall not be able to hold 
the book.' We have only just remembered this, which 
proves that there must have been a slight rally then. 
It was all so short, so bewildering at last, that things 
will only come back gradually. 

" I shall be glad when the incessant noise of work- 
men l downstair^ ceases. It is so incongruous in the 
house now, but could not be helped. My darling did 
not mind it ; indeed it seems to me, on looking back, as 
if she never found fault with anything ; often she did 
not hear it, and when she did, ' I like that pleasant 
sound,' she said." 

" Nov. 1 6. There were forty letters to-day, many 
wanting answers, so I can only write a little, but it is 
a comfort to me to send you any memories of those 
precious last days as they occur to me, and as the 
first mist of anguish clears up, so many things recur. 

" You asked about Romo. Indeed it overwhelms 
me to think of it. The dear little beast is so touching 
in his attempts to comfort me. He comes and licks 
my hand and rubs himself against me, as he never was 
in the habit of doing. In the first sad moments after 
the dear eyes closed, Lea, by an old Northern custom, 
would send down to ' tell the dog and the bees ' (the 
bees would have died, she thinks, if they had not been 
told), and Romo understood it all, and did not howl, 
but cried plaintively all morning. 

" I forget whether I spoke of the music. For the 

1 Tutting up a heating apparatus in the passages. 




last four days my darling had said at intervals that 
she heard beautiful music. Thursday and Friday I 
thought nothing of it ; on Saturday it began to have a 
solemn meaning. 

" I have been to-day to Hurstmonceaux. It was 
necessary. There was deep snow the first part of the 
way, but beyond Battle no snow at all, leaves still on 


the trees, and quite a summer look. It was more 
overpowering to me than I expected to pass Lime, and 
I almost expected to see her come across the field 
and open the wicket-gate to her beloved walk to the 
school. The Haringtons l were most kind in placing 
Hurstmonceaux Place at our disposal for the funeral, 

1 The tenants of Hurstmonceaux Place, the old home of the family. 


and removed all scruples about it by saying how really 
thankful they were to be able to show their affection 
for the Mother in that way. I went up twice to the 
church. The road thither and the churchyard looked 
most beautiful, and the spot chosen, on the edge 
towards the level, with the view she always thought so 
like the Campagna. I am allowed to enclose a little 
space, which will contain my grave also. 

" I called on Mrs. W. Isted, 1 and found her quite 
overpowered, sitting with my darling's photograph. 
' It is not only her own loss, dearly as I loved her, but 
the deaths of all my others come back to me, which 
she helped me to bear.' " 

" Nov. 17. Do you know that through a mist of 
tears I have been forced to go on sending off proof- 
sheets of l Walks in Rome ' ? One of the last things 
she spoke of was her hope that I would not let her 
illness hinder the book. The dedication to her, already 
printed, will seem touching to those who read it. She 
herself read that when the first volume was finished. 
But her great pleasure of the last few weeks was in 
the chapters of the ' Memorials ' which I was writing 
of her Alton life. To continue them with the copious 
materials she has left will now be my one great interest. 
She has left me perfectly free to make what use I like 
of all, and one day made me write down from her 
dictation an expression to that effect. The Alton life 
is certainly the most perfect ideal of a country 
clergyman's life that can well be conceived." 

1 A poor woman at " Lime Cross," constantly visited by my 


Q. I cannot leave home yet. . . . Leycester, 
Mamie, and many others have written, as she always 
said they would, that their hearts and houses are open 
to receive me, but this must be later. Indeed, I shall 
cling to all she loved, and in the ever-living remembrance 
of her shall be able to love all. I had even a kind 
note from Mrs. Maurice J to-day : she said I should. 

" Henry Papillon came yesterday, touchingly wishful 
to look upon the dear face once more, and he was even 
more struck than I expected with its immortal beauty. 
. . . To-day was a great wrench. This morning the 
precious earthly form was sealed away from us." 

" Nov. 22. I went through yesterday in a dream. 
I did not realise it at all. Lea left Holmhurst in an 
agony of sobs and tears, but I did not ; I had so often 
thought of it, I seemed to have gone through it all 
before, and then I had already lost sight of my darling. 

"Lea, John, Johnnie Cornford, and I went in the 
little carriage first ; Harriet, Anne, Rogers, Joe, and 
Margaret Cornford 2 followed her. We reached Hurst- 
monceaux Place about half-past twelve. In half-an- 
hour they all began to arrive : each and all of my dear 
cousins were most kind to me." 

JOURNAL (The Green Book). 

"Dec. 4, 1870. I have been unable to write in my 
journal, the hundred and ninety-two letters which I 
have had to answer have taken all the time. . . . And 

1 My father's half-sister, who had seldom treated me even with 

2 All old servants. 


I live still. I used to think I could not live, but I 
am not even ill ; and yet how my life is changed, all 
the interest, all the happiness, all the sunshine gone, 
only the systematic routine of existence left. 

" My poor Lea is already beginning to be interested 
in her chickens and her farm-life, and to think it all 
' such a long time ago.' But to me it seems as if it had 
only just happened, and the hour in which her sweet 
eyes closed upon me has swallowed up all the hours 
which have come since, and is always the last hour 
to me. 

" I think it was about the third day afterwards that 
Lea came into my room and told me that the look 
of wonderful beauty and repose which appeared at 
the last had come back again to the dear features. 
And so it was. It was the sweetest look of calm, 
serene repose. The colour had all faded out of my 
darling's cheeks, which had lost every sign of age, and 
were smooth and white as if they were chiselled in 
marble. Her closed eyelids, her gently curving mouth 
expressed the sweetest restfulness. The dear lame 
hand, quite supple at last, had closed softly upon the 
other. And this lovely image of her perfected state 
was lent to me till the last, when the beloved features 
were closed away from me for ever. 

" It was on the Saturday that Lea and I went in 
together for the last time. Lea cried violently. I was 
beyond tears. We covered away together all that was 
dearest to us on earth. I placed a lock of my hair 
in her hands, and laid her favourite flowers by her. 
Monday a day of rain and storm-cloud. I shall always 
associate the road to Hurstmonceaux with the drive 


on that winter's morning with swirling rain-clouds, and 
the waters out on the distant Levels gleaming white 
through the mist. Coming down the hill near Boreham 
how many memories of my dearest one came back 
to me, of her anxiety to put me out to walk at 
Standard Hill, of her admiration of the three pines 
on the hill-top; and then, near Lime, of walks with 
her on dewy summer mornings, when I went with her 
in my childhood to pick ground-ivy and violets in the 
fields behind Lime Cross. 

"The coffin lay in the centre of the drawing-room 
at Hurstmonceaux Place, upon a high raised stand 
draped with white. All around it hung a lovely wreath 
of flowers from Holmhurst, and at the foot masses 
of flowers kindly sent by the present owners of Lime. 
Mrs. H. Papillon 1 had sent a beautiful cross of white 
chrysanthemums, and some one else a wreath, and in 
the centre, linking all with a reminiscence of her sister 
Lucy, lay a bunch of withered violets from Abbots 
Kerswell. Here, over the coffin of her whose life was 
perfect peace, the two great enemies in the parish of 
Hurstmonceaux shook hands and were reconciled. 

"At two the eighteen bearers, all chosen from 
labourers whom she had known, filed in in their white 
smock frocks and took up the precious burden. Lea 
and I followed immediately, then Leycester, Vere, and 
Emmie Penrhyn ; Arthur, Augusta, and Mary Stanley; 
Morgan and Mamie Yeatman ; Dr. Vaughan, Frederick 
Fisher, Mrs. Hale, and a long line of neighbours, clergy, 
and servants, walking two and two. 

"Down the well-known avenue and lanes, the 

1 A neighbour and the wife of an old college friend. 


bearers advanced, looking like a great band of choristers. 
I saw nothing, but some of the others remarked that 
as we came away from the house a beautiful silver 
cloud and rainbow appeared over it. 

" Arthur and Augusta left the procession at the foot of 
the hill and passed on before ; so he met us at the gate. 

" In the centre of the chancel, where I had seen the 
coffin of Uncle Julius, there the coffin of my own dar- 
ling lay, but it was covered with no gloomy pall, only 
garlanded with flowers, the garlands of her new life. 

"At the grave, Lea stood on one side of me, Emmie 
on the other. Arthur read most touchingly, and in 
the words of that service one was lifted up, not drawn 
down : but indeed I felt it very little, I only saw it in 
a dream. 

"Afterwards I think they all came up and kissed 
me. Then they went away, and Lea and I walked 
back alone through the shrubbery to Hurstmonceaux 
Place, and so came home. 

"To our most desolate home. 

" On the Saturday after we went to Hurstmonceaux 
again. The Sunday services at the church were most 
beautiful. In the morning ' How bright those glorious 
spirits shine ' was sung, and in the evening, almost in 
the dark, ' Pilgrims of the night.' Mr. Munn l preached 
on ' Bury me with my fathers in the cave of Mach- 
pelah,' &c., speaking of how she was brought from a 
distant place, and how, in foreign lands, her great wish 
had been to be laid at Hurstmonceaux, and so to what 
I wished of the peculiar connection of my darling's 
life with Hurstmonceaux, and of how the different 

1 Rector of Ashburnham. 

41 6 THE STORY OF MY LIFE [1870 

scenes in the parish which called up the remembrance 
of her sweet words and acts connected with them, 
might also call up the recollection of those truths to 
which her gentle life was a living witness. When Lea 
and I went out to the grave afterwards, we found two 
poor women Mrs. Medhurst and Mrs. Harmer 
standing there dressed in black, and the little mound 
covered with flowers. 

" I saw it once again next day, and made a little 
wall of holly and ivy round it. Oh, my darling ! and 
then we returned here again, to the ordinary life, only 
the door of the sacred chamber stands open, and the 
room is cold and empty, and my heart and my life are 
desolate. ' The sanctuary of sorrow ' seems to me an 
expression full of significance." 


" Holmhurst, Dec. I, 1870. Madame de Stae'l shows 
how she must have suffered when she wrote 'Le 
reveil, quel moment pour les malheureux ! ' To-day 
is the first of a month in which my darling has no 
share : each day there is something in which I seem 
to part with her afresh. My life is so changed that it 
seems impossible to believe that it is such a short time 
since I was so happy only, between the present dumb 
blank and the happy time are those terrible thirty-six 
hours of illness, and in the thought of them I am 
more than satisfied that she cannot go through them 
again. Each minute of those hours comes back to me 
now so vividly the acuteness of the numb misery, 
which really had no hope, with the determination that 
she should see nothing but smiles to the last, for 


my whole life afterwards would be long enough for 

" Poor Lea sits with me now for an hour every day 
after tea, and we talk of every moment of those last 

" It is most bitterly cold: she would have been so ill." 

"Dec. 17. Mrs. Tom Brassey passed me to-day, 
riding with a party. She made them go on, and 
stopped to speak to me, then burst into tears, and 
spoke most feelingly of old Mr. Brassey's death, to 
whom I believe she was truly attached. Then she re- 
vealed the enormous wealth to which they have fallen 
heirs. They expected to have no more, as the father 
had already given each of his sons an immense sum, 
but old Mr. Brassey has left six millions ! She feels 
the awful responsibility of such a heritage, and spoke 
admirably and touchingly said she trusted each of 
the three brothers would set out with the determination 
to spend it worthily of their father, and then of all their 
plans already made for the good of others. It seemed 
odd to come back from discussing all this to the great 
anxiety as to whether my income would amount to 
500, and if I should be able to live on at Holmhurst. 

" It is actually five weeks this evening since my 
darling was here, and we were entering upon the utter 
anguish of that last night. Sometimes the agony 
comes back to me, so that I am obliged to do something 
which requires close attention to set it aside; but at 
other times generally I can think with composure 
of the five weeks she has spent well, and warm } and 

VOL. III. 2 D 

41 8 THE STORY OF MY LIFE [1870 


"Dingle Bank, Nov. 21, 1870. You will be in such 
deep grief that I hardly know how to write to you ; 
and yet I so loved the dear Mother you have lost, so 
reverenced her goodness and sweetness and holiness, 
that I cannot but hope you may like a few words from 
me of truest sympathy, and indeed I can feel for you. 
To those at a distance it is the thought of a dear friend 
transplanted from earth to heaven, but to you there 
is the thought of the daily companionship, the loving 
nursing, the perpetual consciousness of what you were 
to her. In this, however, in the sense of the continual 
help and comfort and love that she received from you, 
will be your great consolation. 

" I have never lost the impression made on me by 
her own more than resignation when she spoke to me 
at Rugby of her own separation from what was dearest 
to her upon earth there seemed such joy in his hap- 
piness, such a realising of it to herself, that earthly 
clouds and shadows disappeared. 

" I will not say more now, but for her dear sake, 
and that of my long and affectionate interest in you, I 
hope you will sometimes let me hear of you." 


"7 Fitzroy Square, Dec. 4. I have seen a notice 
in the Times which has sent a pang through my heart, 
and hasten to tell you how intensely I feel for you. 
None but those who know the bitterness of a great 
sorrow can really sympathise with you, for only they 
can measure the length and breadth of the suffering-. 


I know of no consolation but the conviction that God 
knows all and does all, and that He will reunite in 
His good time to the Beloved One. Sorrow is a 
mighty force, and its fruit ought to be commensurate : 
we sow truly in tears, but the reaping in joy is, I 
believe, reserved for another state. Still there is much 
to be done by sorrow's husbandry even here, and 
assuredly were the fruits of the Spirit to be attained 
without suffering, God would not put His poor children 
through it. 

" I fear that life must look very joyless before you, 
and that all things for a time must seem altered, your 
very self most so. I can only say be patient with 
yourself, and take every mitigation that offers itself. 
I should be very glad to hear from you when you 
have heart and leisure. You have seen me in bitter 
anguish, and will not be shy of one who has drunk 
of that cup to the very dregs. God's holy will be 
done ! " 




ABERDEEN, John, 7th Earl of, iii. 

Ackermann, Felix, i. 36, 97, 158; ii. 

192, 195, 423 ; iii. 53-56, 338, 349. 
Madame Victoire, i. 31, 32, 

96, 339-340. 354-356 ; ii. 192, 195, 

405, 422-423, 499 ; iii. 52-64, 189, 

253. 3o8, 310-312, 339, 351. 
Victoria, iii. 308, 311. 
Acland, Sir Thomas, ii. 149. 
Acuto, ii. 426, 438-441. 
Adeane, Henry John, i. 214. 
Adelaide de France, Madame, iii. 23. 

Queen of England, i. 289, 294. 
Aitkens, Mr., of Kingston-Lyle, ii. 


Alacoque, Marguerite Marie, ii. 445. 
Albert, the Prince Consort, i. 302 ; 

ii. 286-288. 
Albrecht, Archduke of Austria, ii. 


Alcock, Mrs., story of, iii. 118-123. 
Alderley, i. 61, 66; ii. 292, 293. 
Aldermaston, ii. 219. 
Alexander, Mary Manning, Mrs., i. 

185, 248 251, 357, 469, 481; ii. 

Alford, Henry, Dean of Canterbury, 

i. 479 ; ii. 390-391, 43 2 ~433 5 iij - 

155-157, 393-394- 
Lady Marian, i. 293 ; ii. 298 ; 

iii. 28, 368. 

Alfriston, i. 505. 

Alice, H.R.H. the Princess, of 

Hesse, ii. 288. * 

Allan, Charles Stuart, ii. 515. 

John Hay, ii. 515. 

| Alnwick, ii. 353 ; iii. 33. 
Alston, Carlotta, i. 2. 

Mary Margaret, i. 2, 5. 

Alton Barnes, i. 45-48, 191-192, 278; 

iii. no. 

Amboise, ii. 495. 

Anderson, Mr., of Bradley, ii. 320. 
Angoulme,MarieThe'resede France, 

Duchesse d', ii. 298 ; iii. 43-44. 
Antibes, iii. 145-149. 
Antonelli, Cardinal, ii. 72 ; iii. 71. 
Aponte, Dom Emmanuele, i. 6-8. 
Aram, Eugene, ii. 332-334. 
Arcachon, ii. 465. 
Arkcoll, Mr. Thomas, ii. 228, 244. 
Aries, iii. 184. 
Arnold, Edward, iii. 329. 

Matthew, i. 177, 512. 

- Mrs., i. 177; iii. 327-329, 

Dr. Thomas, of Rugby, i. 

Ars, Jean Marie Vianney, le Curd 

d', ii. 417-420. 
Ars, visit to, iii. 134-136. 
Ashdown, ii. 229. 
Athelstan, Mr., ii. 270. 
Aumale, Henri, Due d', iii. 18. 
Autun, iii. 320. 





BABINGTON, Mrs. Catherine, ii. 351. 
Bacon, Mrs. Nicholas, iii. 169. 
Baden, Frederick William, Grand 

Duke, and Louisa, Grand Duchess 

of, iii. 109. 
Baden-Baden, i. 384. 
Bagot, Mr. Charles, iii. 132. 

Lucia, Lady, iii. 32. 

Lord and Lady, iii. 368. 

Balcarres, Colin, 3rd Earl of, iii. 25, 
r James, 5th Earl of, iii. 24. 
Bamborough Castle, ii. 271, 354 J 

iii. 8, 170. 
Bankhead, Charles, secretary of 

legation at Constantinople, i. 26. 
Maria Horatia Paul, Mrs., i. 

27, 28, 296. 
Bar le Due, iii. 333. 
Barnard, Lady Anne, iii. 14, 27, 324- 

326, 431. 

Barnard Castle, ii. 275, 340. 
Barraud, Madame and Mademoi- 
selle, ii. 116, 125-128. 
Barrere, Madame, iii. 87. 
Barrington, Hon. Adelaide, ii. 139. 

Hon. Augusta, ii. 139. 

George, 5th Viscount, ii. 310. 

Jane, Viscountess, ii. 138, 140. 

Shute, Bishop of Durham, ii. 

William Keppel, 6th Viscount, 

ii. 139, 140. 

Mrs. Russell, i. 282. 

Bassi, Laura, i. 7. 
Bayley, Mrs., iii. 132-134. 
Beaujour, Chateau de, ii. 500-503. 
Beckett, ii. 138-140, 227, 229. 
Beckwith, Mrs., of Silksworth, ii. 


Belgium, tour in, i. 377. 
Belhaven, Hamilton, Lady, ii. 335- 

337, 354-355- 35 8 ! 35~36. 

Belhaven, Lord, ii. 354, 358 ; iii. 

35- 45-46. 
Bellagio, iii. 106. 
Belsay, ii. 347. 
Benalta, family story of, ii. 454- 


Bengivenga, Francesca, iii. 200. 
Bennet, Hon. Frederick, ii. 268-269. 

Hon. George, ii. 268-269. 
Bentley, Harriet, iii. 406, 412. 
Benzoni, the sculptor, iii. 83. 
Berchtesgaden, iii. 231. 
Bergeret, Madame, story of, iii. 177- 


Berkeley Castle, i. 287. 
Berri, Caroline, Duchesse de, iii. 15- 

17, 43-44. 

Berry, the Misses, i. 299-300. 
Betharram, ii. 487. 
Biarritz, ii. 488. 
Bidart, ii. 489. 
Birtles, iii. 117. 
Blackett, Sir Edward and Lady, ii. 

266-267, 341, 346; iii. 170, 323. 
Blackwood, Sir Arthur, iii. 243. 
Blake, Sir Francis, iii. 31. 

William, the artist, iii. 14. 

Blenkinsopp Castle, ii. 353. 
Blessington, Harriet Power, Countess 

of, i. 20, 37 ; ii. 408. 
Blomfield, Charles James, Bishop of 

London, i. 470. 

Blommart, Miss Elizabeth, ii. 489. 
Bodryddan, iii. 123. 
Bologna, i. 7-9 ; iii. 380. 
Bolvilliers, Comtesse de, i. 343-351. 
Bonaparte, Cardinal Lucien, iii. 287. 
Bonis, Madame Maria de, iii. 373, 


Bonnyrigg, ii. 341. 
Borghese, Adele, Princess, ii. 58. 

Guendolina, Princess, ii. 58, 59. 

Marc-Antonio, Prince, ii. 58, 




Borghese, Pauline, Princess, ii. 336. 
Teresa, Princess, ii. 58 ; iii. 85, 

Bosanquet, Charles, of Rock, ii. 278. 

Mrs. , of Rock, ii. 279. 

Bothwell Castle, iii. 48. 

Bourbon, Louis Henri Joseph, Due 

de, iii. 21-23. 
Bourges, ii. 310. 
Bowes, ii. 276. 
Bowes, Lady Anna, ii. 172, 173. 

John, of Streatlam, ii. 173, 178, 
179, 274-276. 

Mrs. John, ii. 275. 

Bowles, Miss, iii. 294, 298. 

Boyle, Carolina Amelia Poyntz, 

Lady, i. 89, 291-292. 
Hon. Carolina Courtenay, i. 

289-294, 436-437. 508-509, ii- 


Miss Mary, i. 293 ; iii. 368, 370. 
Bozledeane Wood, i. 361. 
Bracciano, iii. 375. 

Bradley Manor in Devon, i. 287. 

in Northumberland, ii. 320. 
Bradley, Rev. Charles, i. 297-299, 

SOSES' 33 2 -335, 368, 369, 390- 
393- 39 6 -398, 408. 

Mrs. Charles, i. 303, 307, 369. 
Brainscleugh, ii. 358. 

Brassey, Henry and Albert, ii. 391. 

Mrs. Thomas, iii. 417. 
Brewster, Sir David, iii. 40. 
Bridgeman, Lady Selina, ii. 389. 
Brimham Rocks, ii. 339. 
Brinkburn Abbey, ii. 365. 
Brodie, Sir Benjamin, i. 248. 
Brougham and Vaux, Henry, ist 

Lord, iii. 143-144. 
Brown, Dr., Professor at Aberdeen, 

i. 1 1. 
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, ii. 91, 

Robert, ii. 408. 

Brownlow, John, 2nd Earl, ii. 137. 
Bruce, Rev. J. Collingwood, the 

antiquarian, ii. 318 ; iii. 49. 

Hon. Mrs. Robert, iii. 203. 

Brymer, Archdeacon (of Wells), i. 


Marianne Wilkinson, Mrs., i. 


Buchanan, Miss Helen, iii. 81. 
Bufalo, the Venerable Gaspare del, 

ii. 425, 442. 
Bulkeley, Anna Maria Hare, Mrs., i. 

3. 494- 

Bulman, Mrs., ii. 346. 
Bunsen, Charles de, ii. 109. 
Chevalier, afterwards Baron, i. 

161-163, l6 4. 465, 504. 

Emilia de, iii. 109. 

Frances de, ii. 293 ; iii. 109. 

George de, i. 481. 

Rev. Henry de, ii. 328. 

Madame, afterwards Baroness, 

i. 465 ; ii. 293, 333-336. 

Matilda de, ii. 293. 

Theodore de, i. 464 ; ii. 294. 
Buntingsdale, i. 144, 208 ; ii. 326- 

3 2 7. 

Burney, Miss, ii. 436. 

Burns, Robert, the poet, ii. 169. 

Burr, Mrs. Higford, ii. 220. 

Butler, Rev. W. J., Vicar of Wan- 
tage, ii. 222-224. 

Mrs., i. 501. 

CAEN, i. 319. 

Caerlaverock Castle, ii. 164. 
Ciiictuni, Don Kilippo, ii. 58. 

Don Onorato, iii. 87. 

Calotkin, Count, i. 15. 

Cambo, ii. 490. 

Cameron, Mr., and Lady Vere, ii. 8. 



Cameron, Lady Vere, ii. 481-482. 
Campbell, Charlotte Malcolm, Lady, 
i. 88. 

Colin, i. 309, 310, 313. 

Canevari, G. B., the portrait painter, 

ii- 75- 

Cannes, iii. 136-150. 
Canning, Charlotte, Countess, ii. 

360; iii. 323. 
Canterbury, i. 357-366 ; ii. 23-25 ; 

iii- 33I-33 2 . 394- 
Capel, Monsignor, ii. 486. 
Capheaton, ii. 350. 
Capri, ii. 81. 
Carew, Miss Julia Pole, iii. 372. 

Mrs. Pole, iii. 375. 

Carham, iii. 326. 
Carlsruhe, i. 6 ; iii. 109. 
Carlyle, Thomas, i. 166. 
Carmicha'el, Sir William, iii. 46. 
Caroline, Empress of Austria, ii. 42. 
of Brunswick, Queen of Eng- 
land, iii. 14-15. 

Carr of Hedgeley, family of, ii. 286. 
Castel Fusano, ii. 390. 
Castlecraig, iii. 46. 
Castro, Don Alessandro del, iii. 193. 
Cavendish, Admiral, and Mrs. 

George, ii. 94, 97. 

Louisa, Hon. Mrs., i. 212. 

Lord Richard, i. 212. 

Cecchi, Cardinal, ii. 68. 

Cecil, Lord Eustace, i. 241. 

Cecinelli, Lucia, i. 53. 

Cenci, Count Bolognetti, iii. 49, 85, 


Challinor, Mrs. Hannah, i. 150. 
Chambord, Henri, Comte de, iii. 16- 


Charles X., King of France, iii. 43. 
Charlotte, Queen of England, ii. 436- 

Charlotte, Princess, of Belgium, ii. 

36, 37- 

Charltons of Hesleyside, the, ii. 


Chartwell, i. 507 ; ii. 321. 
Chase Dieu, Le, iii. 150. 
Chequers, ii. 8. 
Chesters, ii. 341 ; iii. 49. 
Chetwode, Mrs. George, i. 157. 
Chevreuse, ii. 125. 
Chichester, Miss Catherine, ii. 94, 

Chillingham, ii. 267-271, 364; iii. 


Chingford, i. 312, 400. 
Chipchase, ii. 343. 
Cholmondeley, Mary Heber, Mrs., i. 


Christina, Queen, of Spain, ii. 57. 
Civita Castellana, ii. 54. 
Clarendon, Caroline, vvife of the 5th 

Earl of, ii. 139. 
Clayton, Mrs. Anne, ii. 318-319. 

George Nathaniel, ii, 318, 353. 

Isabel, Mrs. G. Nathaniel, ii. 


John, of Chesters, ii. 318, 343. 

Miss, ii. 274, 318, 341-344. 

Mr. Matthew, ii. 318-319. 

Cleveland, William Henry, ist Duke 

of, iii. 46. 

Clifford, Captain, ii. 81. 
Clinton, Lady Charles, ii. 477. 

Lady Louisa, i. 383. 

Miss Louisa, i. 59, 210, 257, 


Clive, Mrs. Archer, ii. 452-453. 
Cluny, iii. 383. 
Clutterbuck, Marianne Lyon, Mrs., 

of Warkworth, ii. 17, 284, 352. 
Clyde, Falls of the, iii. 99. 
Cobham, Claude Delaval, iii. 152- 


Coigny, Augustin, Due de, iii. 18-19. 
Cole, Miss Florence, ii. 45, 54. 
Miss Louisa, ii. 46. 



Colegrave, Mrs. Francis, ii. 94, 


Coleman, Miss Sarah, i. 173. 
Collatia, ii. 390. 
Collins, Staunton, i. 153, 190. 
Colonna, Isabella de Toledo, Prin- 
cess, iii. 190. 
Colquhoun, J. E. C., i. 507; ii. 322. 

John Archibald, iii. 425. 

Compton, Mrs., iii. 326. 
Conington, John, Professor of Latin, 

ii. 4. 
Conwy, Shipley, iii. 129. 

Colonel Shipley, iii. 130. 

Copeland Castle, ii. 364. 

Corbet, Lady, of Adderley, iii. 401. 

Cork and Orrery, Edmund, 8th Earl 

of, i. 293. 
Costa le Cerda, Vicomte, ii. 115-116, 

Coitrell- Dormer, Mr. and Mrs., of 

Rousham, ii. 150. 
Coulson, Colonel, ii. 354. 

Hon. Mrs. , ii. 354. 

Misses Mary and Arabella, of 

Blenkinsopp, ii. 176, 222. 
Courraayeur, ii. 409, 458. 
Courtenay, Lady Agnes, iii. 318. 
" Sir William" (Nichols Tom), 

i. 361-365. 

Cousin, M. Victor, iii. ^146. 
Cowburne, Mrs., i. 128, 209. 
Coxe, Rev. Henry Octavius, Bodleian 

Librarian, ii. 157. 

Cracroft, Colonel and Mrs., iii. 382. 
Cradock, Hon. Mrs. (Harriet Lister), 

i. 512 ; ii. 137-138. 
Craster, family of, ii. 279. 
Crecy, ii. 380. 
Creslow Pastures, ii. 220. 
Cresswell, Sir Cresswell, ii. 353. 
Crichton Castle, ii. 172. 
Croyland, iii. 164. 
Cuffe, Sir Charles, ii. 58. 

Cummings, Mr. and Mrs., iii. 

Cushman, Miss -Charlotte, iii. 204- 

207, 386. 


DALLAS, Mrs., iii. 380. 
Dalton Hall, iii. 131. 
Dalzell, ii. 359. 
Dalzel, Mrs. Allen, iii. 172. 

Aventina, Mrs., ii. 17-19, 172, 
357 ; iii. 172, 174-176. 

Dampierre, ii. 125. 

Darley, George, i. 164. 

Darling, Mr., of Bamborough, ii. 


Dasent, Sir George, i. 67, 448. 
Dashvvood, Anna Maria Shipley, 

Mrs., i. 17, 26, 157; iii. 125, 


Bertha, Lady, ii. 466, 477. 

Sir Edwin, ii. 466. 

D'Aubign^, M. Merle, i. 453. 
Davenport, Edward, of Capesthorne, 

ii. 142. 
Davidoff, Adele, Madame, i. 351 ; 

ii. 65-67, 76, 115, 416. 
Davidson, Susan Jessop, Mrs., of 

Ridley Hall, ii. 172-177, 266, 

272-274 ; iii. 322-323. 
Dawkins, Mrs. Francis, ii. 297 ; iii. 

71-75. 3'4- 

Deimling, Herr Otto, i. 162. 
Denfenella, ii. 168. 
Denison, Lady Charlotte, iii. 42. 

Mr. Stephen, ii. 272. 

Derby, Edward Smith Stanley, 131)1 

Earl of, iii. 131. 
Derwentwater, James Radcliffe, Earl 

of, ii. 266, 351. 
De Solby, Mrs., iii. 71-80. 
Mrs. Robert, iii. 191. 



Des Voeux, Miss Georgiana, ii. 371- 

372 ; iii. 139. 
Devonshire, Georgiana, wife of 

William, 5th Duke of, i. 5, 6. 
Dickens, Charles, ii. 276. 
Dilston, ii. 320. 
Dixon, Louisa Simpkinson, Mrs., 

iii. 397. 
Dixon- Browne, Mr. and Mrs., of 

Unthank, iii. 169. 
Dolceacqua, ii. 253. 
Dolgorouki, Prince Nicole, iii. 68, 


Doncaster, ii. 261. 
Doria, Donna Guendolina, ii. 71. 

Prince, ii. 424. 

Donna Olimpia, ii. 72. 

Donna Teresa, ii. 70. 

D'Orsay, Count, i. 18, 20, 29, 37 ; 

ii. 408. 

Dowdeswell, Miss, iii. 76, 82. 
Dresden, i. 429. 
Duckworth, Robinson, afterwards 

tutor to Prince Leopold and 

Canon of Westminster, i. 446, 

472 ; ii. 4, 33. 
Dudley, John, Earl, i. 20. 
Dumbleton, Miss Harriet, i. 269. 
Dumfries, ii. 163. 
Dunlop, Harriet, Mrs., iii. 258, 260, 

281-282, 288, 291, 292, 298, 304, 

30 6 , 3*7- 
Dunottar, ii. 166. 
Dunstanborough Castle, ii. 269-270, 

364 ; iii. 35, 36. 
Duntrune, ii. 165. 
Dupanloup, Monsignor, Bishop of 

Orleans, iii. 360. 
Durham, ii. 262. 
Durham, Beatrix, Countess of, ii. 

364-366; iii. 35-39. 
George-Frederick, Earl of, ii. 

364-365 ; ii. 35-36. 
Dyrham Park, i. 315. 


EARDLEY, Sir Culling, ii. 298. 
Eastbourne, i. 63, 210, 256, 376, 


East Hendred, ii. 230. 
Eastlake, Elizabeth Rigby, Lady, 

iii. I54-I5S. 4i8. 
Eccles Greig, ii. 168. 
Egerton, Lady Blanche, iii. 32, 33. 

Rev. Charles, i. 136. 
Elcho, Anne, Lady, ii. 356 ; iii. 42. 
Ellisland, ii. 169. 
Ellison, Mr. Cuthbert, i. 50. 

Mrs. , of Sugbrooke, iii. 169. 

Elsdon, ii. 345. 

Ely, iii. 8. 

Erskine, Rev. J., and Mrs., iii. 200. 

Thomas, of Linlathen, ii. 165, 


Escrick, ii. 437. 
Eslington, ii. 320, 364. 
Este, iii. 229. 

Eugene Beauharnois, Prince, i. 20. 
Eugenie, the Empress, i. 492 ; iii. 


Evans, Rev. Mr., iii. 3. 
Eversley, Viscount, ii. 217. 
Evreux, i. 326. 
Exeter, Henry Philpotts, Bishop of, 

ii. 264. 


FACCHINI, Giacinta, "the Saint of 
St. Peter's," ii. 429-430; iii. 253- 

Falconnet, -Mademoiselle Judith, ii. 


Falkirk Tryste, iii. 48. 
Farley Hungerford, i. 271-272. 
Feilden, Rev. H. Arbuthnot, and 

Mrs., iii. 78-80. 



Feilding, Lord and Lady, i. 340. 
Fellowes, Susan Lyon, Mrs., ii. 272, 


Ferney Voltaire, i. 453. 
Ferrara, ii. 47 ; iii. 345. 
Ferronays, M. de la, ii. 68. 
Feucheres, Sophia Dawes, Madame 

de, iii. 21-23. 
Fiano, Duke of, ii. 424 ; iii. 269, 286. 

Giulia, Duchess of, ii. 59. 

Fielding, Copley, i. 164, 505. 

Filiol, Sybil, i. 156. 

Fina, S., iii. 343. 

Finucane, Miss, iii. 209, 378. 

Fisher, Frederick, iii. 67, 414. 

FitzClarence, Lady Frederick, iii. 


Fitz-Gerald, Edward Fox, i. 29. 
Jane Paul, Mrs. Edward, i. 29 ; 

iii. 267, 269, 271, 272. 

Pamela, wife of Lord Edward, 

i. 29. 

Fitzherbert, Mrs., iii. 323. 
Fitzmaurice, Mrs., iii. 225. 
Fletcher, Miss, of Saltoun, ii. 355 ; 

iii. 40, 42, 43. 
Lady Charlotte, ii. 356 ; iii. 


Flodden Field, ii. 281. 
Florence, ii. 84 ; iii. 103, 315. 
Florence, Henry, iii. 363. 
Fontainebleau, i. 451. 
Fontaines, iii. 183. 
Fontarabia, ii. 493. 
Fontenay, iii. 385. 
Ford Castle, ii. 280-282, 360-363 ; 

iii. 323-326. 
Foster, Dr., Bishop of Kilmore, and 

Mrs. , ii. 233-234. 

Miss, ii. 234-239. 

Fotheringham, Mrs., of Fothering- 

ham, ii. 165. 
Francesca Romana, S., iii. 224- 


Francesco II., King of Naples, iii. 

96-97, 8 5- 

Franklin, Lady, iii. 2. 
Fray, Miss, i. 268. 
Frederick, Crown Prince of Prussia, 

afterwards Emperor of Germany, 

i'- 374- 

the Great, ii. 148. 
Fribourg, in Switzerland, ii. 112. 
Fritwell Manor, ii. 151. 
Fry, Elizabeth, Mrs., i. 229 ; ii. 437. 
Fullerton, Lady Georgiana, ii. 400, 

403, 444. 


GABET, M., ii. 421. 
Gabriac, Marquis de, ii. 115. 

Marquise de, ii. 67. 

Gaebler, M. Bernard, i. 160. 
Galicano, the Hermitage of, ii. 98. 
Galway, Rev. Father, ii. 398-404, 

427 ; iii. 262, 286. 
Garden, Miss Henrietta, i. 108 ; iii. 

192, 213, 220. 
Gaskell, Mrs., the authoress, ii. 224 ; 

iii. 117. 
Gasperoni, the robber chieftain, ii. 


Gaussen, M., i, 453. 
Gay ford, Mrs., i. 53, 369. 
Gemmi, adventure on the, i. 462. 
Geneva, i. 452 ; ii. 378. 
George III., King of England, ii. 

George IV., King of England, iii. 

14, 15, 176, 324. 
Ghizza, Ancilla, iii. 234. 
Giacinta, the "Saint of St. Peter's," 

ii. 429-430 ; iii- 253-254. 
Gibside, ii. 180. 
Gibson, John, the sculptor, iii. 76- 




Gidman, John, i. 131 ; ii. 33, 83, 
386 ; iii. 232, 406, 412. 

Mary Lea, i. 205-207, 210 ; ii. 

33, 468, 489; iii. 193, 195, 316, 
399, 403, 409, 412, 413, 414. 

Gioberti, Signor, iii. 167. 

Gladstone, Mrs., ii. 381. 

Glamis Castle, i. 22. 

Glamis, John Lyon, 6th Lord, i. 


John Lyon, 7th Lord, i. 23. 

John, 8th Lord, i. 23. 

Glastonbury, i. 98. 

Goldschmidt, Madame (Jenny Lind), 

i. 230 ; iii. 146-149. 
Goldsmid, Nathaniel, ii. 68 ; iii. 168. 
Mrs. Nathaniel, iii. 69, 71-75, 


Goldstone Farm, i. 149, 208. 
Gondi, Count, iii. 252. ' 
Gordon, Hon. John, iii. 43. 
Gore, Lady, i. 278. 
Gosan, Lakes of, ii. 41. 
Gosford, ii. 356. 
Grande Chartreuse, La, ii. 258. 
Grant, Dr., Bishop of Southvvark, ii. 

Frederick Forsyth, i. 440; ii. 

151, 168. 
Granville, Mr. Court, and Lady 

Charlotte, ii. 353. 
Gregory, Mrs. , ii. 482-486. 
Gregory XVI., Pope, iii. 74. 
Gresford, i. 96 ; ii. 448. 
Grey, Anna Sophia Ryder, Lady, of 

Falloden, ii. 279, 363. 
Charles, 2nd Earl, iii. 36. 

Lady Charlotte, widow of the 

Hon. Gen. Sir Henry Grey of 

Falloden, ii. 251, 371, 377; iii. 

139, 154- 

Lady Elizabeth, ii. 276, 366. 

Hon. and Rev. Francis, ii. 276- 

278, 366. 

Grey, Sir George, of Falloden, ii. 

279. 363 I i. 36. 
Sir George, of New Zealand, ii. 

214-217 ; iii. 330. 
Lady Georgiana, ii. 332, 334- 

335. 337^339- 
Henry George, 3rd Earl, iii. 35, 


Rev. Harry, i. 253. 

Mr. John, of Dilston, ii. 266. 

Maria, Countess, iii. 35-36. 

Greville, Mrs., nte Locke, ii. 94. 

Grigor, Dr., iii. 373. 

Grimaldi, ii. 250. 

Grimaldi, the Marchesa, ii. 320. 

Grote, Harriet Lewin, Mrs., i. 368; 

ii. 218. 

Grove, Mrs., iii. 394. 
Guildford, the trial at, iii. 294. 
Guizot, M. Franpois Pierre Guil- 

laume, i. 320. 
Gunnora, Duchess of Normandy, i. 


Gurney, Miss Anna, i. 230. 
Mrs. Catherine, i. 229. 


HAIG, the Misses, iii. 378. 
Hale, Dr. Douglas, ii. 369, 497. 

Mrs., ii. 497 ; iii. 414. 

Halifax, Miss Caroline, i. 284. 
Hall, Mrs. Richard, iii. 159, 195, 


Hallam, Arthur, i. 509. 
Hallein, mines of, ii. 42. 
Hallingbury, iii. 7. 
Hallstadt, ii. 40. 
Hamilton Palace, ii. 358. 
Hamilton, Alexander, roth Duke of, 

ii- 336, 359- 

Mrs. Cospatrick Baillie, iii. 395. 
Lady Emily, iii. 48. 



Hamilton, Hon. Margaret Dillon, 
Mrs., i. 382. 

Mary, Duchess of, ii. 358. 

Hampden, Great, ii. 8. 

Hanover, King George of, ii. 152, 


Harcourt, Archbishop, iii. 157. 
Hardwicke, Susan, Countess of, ii. 


- Elizabeth, Countess of, iii. 24- 

27, 323- 
Hare, Anna-Maria Clementina, i. ir, 


Anne Frances Maria Louisa, i. 

39, 160, 338-357, 370; ii. 55-57, 
70, 72, 114-115, 182-213, 284, 
400, 409-432, 499-517 ; iii. 68, 89, 
232, 233-272. 

Augustus John Cuthbert : birth 

of, i. 42 ; baptism, 50 ; adoption, 
51 ; is sent to England, 53 ; child- 
hood of, 54-166; sent to school 
at Harnish, 167 ; private school 
life of, 170 ; at Harrow, 214-246 ; 
at Lyncombe, 247-296 ; at South- 
gate, 297-401 ; tour in Normandy, 
318-331 ; tour in Belgium, Ger- 
many, and France, 377-387 ; goes 
to University College, Oxford, 402 ; 
second tour in Germany and 
France, 422-436 ; in France and 
Switzerland, 450-465 ; in Wales, 
501-503; in Scotland, ii. 17-23; 
leaves Oxford, 31 ; in Switzerland 
and Austria, 33-44 ; first journey 
to Rome and Naples, 45-84 ; 
summer at Florence and Lucca, 
84-103; autumn in Northern Italy 
and Paris, 103-128; writes Mur- 
ray's Handbook for Berks, Bucks, 
and Oxfordshire, 133-241 ; second 
summer in Scotland, 162-172 ; has 
to leave Hurstmonceaux, 227 ; 
leaves Lime, 243 ; settles at Holm- 

hurst, 244 ; spends the winter at 
Mentone, 246-258 ; writes Mur- 
ray's Handbook for Durham and 
Northumberland, 260-366 ; spends 
the spring at Nice and early 
summer in Switzerland, 370-380 ; 
second winter at Rome, 384-409 ; 
visit to Eserick, 433 ; spring at 
Pau and Biarritz, 462-497 ; sum- 
mer in Northumberland, iii. 8-49 ; 
third winter at Rome, 50-109 ; 
winter at Cannes, 134-152 ; fourth 
winter at Rome, 183-232 ; death 
of his sister, 232 ; is attacked by a 
Roman Catholic conspiracy, 272- 
312 ; fifth winter at Rome and 
dangerous illness, 314-320 ; fifth 
winter at Rome, 333-386; death 
of his adopted mother, 400. 
Hare, Augustus William, Rector 
of Alton-Barnes, i. 6, 13, 14, 43- 

Mrs. Augustus (Maria Ley- 

cester), i. 43, 54-80, 98-171, 187- 

196, 2OO-2OI, 2IO-2I2, 240, 254, 
259. 262, 365, 376-377, 437-438, 

442-444, 450, 454, 464, 466, 469, 
487-492 ; ii. 14-17, 44-49, 76, 80, 
8 5. 97, 109, 130, 227-229, 243, 
246-247, 259, 326-328, 367-372, 
392-393. 460-497; iii. 3, 84, 103, 
107, no, 141, 183, 187-190, 202- 
232, 320-322, 331, 337-419- 
Miss Caroline, i. 4, 89, 94, 291. 

Caroline, daughter of Francis 

and Anne, i. 33, 35. 

Francis, Dean of St. Paul's 
and Bishop of St. Asaph and Chi- 
chester, i. i, 2 ; ii. 156. 

Francis George (the elder), i. 

6-21, 26, 29-42, 49-53, 84-85, 95, 
157-159 I . 57- 

Francis George (the younger), 

i. 35. 92-94, 160, 373-3751 ii- 



400-402, 448 ; iii. 240, 248, 257- 

259, 276, 278, 282-313. 
Hare, Mrs. (Anne Frances Paul), 

i- 33-42, 51, 53, 95, 160, 260- 

261, 276, 339-355, 370-376; ii. 

55-57, 182-213, 2I 4. 397-406 ; iii. 

53. 54- 

George, i. 91-94. 

Georgiana, afterwards Mrs. 

Frederick Maurice, i. 13, 16, 82- 

83, 280. 

Gustavus Cockburn, i. 13, 

123, 287, 481. 

Mrs. Gustavus (Annie Wright), 

i. 123. 

Mrs. Henckel, i. 3, 4, 89, 90. 

Henry, i. 91. 

Julius Charles, i. 6, 10, 14, 49, 

50, 59, 67-75, 77, 80-81, 99, 104- 

107, log-Ill, 122, 156, 157, 176, 

179, 251-253, 261-262, 357, 466- 
469, 476, 478, 480-484. 

Mrs. Julius (Esther Maurice), 

i. 178-190, 201-203, 2I 5 238-240, 
251, 260, 285, 357, 445, 467; ii. 
128-129, 393-394- 

Marcus Augustus Stanley, i. 74, 
86-88 ; iii. 366, 370. 

Marcus Theodore, i. 6, 14, 85, 

96, 175, 190, 192, 194-196. 

Mrs. Marcus (Hon. Lucy Anne 

Stanley), i. 49, 74, 167, 175, 178, 
192, 194-196, 201-204; iii 3 l8 ~ 
3 T 9' 

Miss Marianne, i. 4, 10, 89, 95, 


Mary Margaret Alston, Mrs., 

i. 494 ; ii. 156. 

Reginald John, i. 13. 

Theodore Julius, i. 160, 204. 

Rev. Robert, Rector of Hurst- 
monceaux, i. 4, 5. 

Rev. Canon Robert, i. 2, 6, 


Hare, William Robert, i. 38, 161, 
373-375 5 " 401-402, 411, 452- 
453, 5i4 ; iii- 241-250. 

Harnham, ii. 351. 

Harnish, i. 170. 

Harris, Hon. Reginald Temple, i. 
264, 277, 282, 

Harrison, Archdeacon Benjamin, 
and Mrs., iii. 331-332. 

Harrow, i. 214. 

Hastings, i. 122. 

Hatfield, i. 307, 313. 

Hawker, Misses Jane and Adelaide, 
iii. 106-107, 146. 

Hawkestone, i. 148, 208 ; ii. 327. 

Hawtrey, Dr. Edward Craven, Pro- 
vost of Eton, ii. 230-232. 

Miss, ii. 231. 

Hay, Adam, of King's Meadows, ii. 
137 ; iii. 46, 146. 

Miss Ida, ii. 372. 

Sir Adam, ii. 357 ; iii. 146. 

Heber, Rev. Reginald, Rector of 
Hodnet, and Bishop of Calcutta, 

i- 44- 

Mrs. Reginald (Emilia Ship- 
ley), i. 45 ; iii. 125. 

Hedley, Rev. W., Dean of Univer- 
sity College, afterwards Rector of 
Beckley, i. 405. 

Heidelberg, i. 380. 

Heiligenkreutz, ii. 38. 

Henckel, Mrs., i. 90. 

Herries, Marcia, Lady, iii. 237. 

Hesleyside, ii. 343. 

Hibbert, Caroline Cholmondeley, 
Mrs., iii. 117. 

Hickledon Hall, ii. 283. 

Higginson, Miss Adelaide, i. 479. 
Lady Frances, i. 479. 

High Force, the, ii. 340. 

Hill, Ann, Viscountess, i. 148. 

Sir Rowland, i. 147. 

Viscount, i. 145. 



Hobart, Vere Henry, Lord, and 
Mary Catherine, Lady, ii. 


Hodnet, i. 143 ; ii. 327. 
Hogg. James, the Ettrick Shepherd, 

ii. 314-3*5- 
Holmhurst, ii. 241-246, 259, 368 ; 

iii. 320. 

Holy Island, ii. 271-272. 
Hood, Henry, iii. 152. 
Hope, Lady Mildred, ii. 14. 
Hornby, Mrs., of Dalton, iii. 80, 

'3 1 - 329-330. 
Horsley, Bishop, iii. 332. 
Hosmer, Miss Harriet, the sculp- 
tress, iii. 76, 368. 
Hos Tendis, i. 4. 
Houblon, Mr., and Mrs. Archer, ii. 

390 ; iii. 7. 
Houghton, Robert Monckton, ist 

Lord, iii. 229, 360. 
Hour, the Holy, ii. 499. 
Housesteads, ii. 343. 
Howard, Edward Henry, Monsig- 

nor, afterwards Cardinal, ii. 

6 7 . 

Lady Victoria, iii. 145. 
Howick, iii. 34, 35. 
Hughan, Miss Janetta, ii. 284. 
Hughes, Miss, "Sister Marion," i. 

Hull, Henry Winstanley, i. 164, 196- 

197. 5 01 - 

Hulne Abbey, iii. 33. 

Hunt, Sir J., iii. 31. 

Hurstmonceaux, i. 1-4, 9-12, 54-60, 
93, 156-158, 164-166, 187-190, 
258-260, 437-438, 475-478, 504- 
507 ; ii. 14, 227-228 ; iii. 410-411, 

Hutt, William, M.P. for Gateshead, 
ii. 180. 

Hyeres, ii. 370. 



IGNATIUS, Brother, iii. 81-82. 
Ingilby, Elizabeth Macdowell, Lady, 
of Ripley, ii. 283, 337. 

Miss, ii. 332. 

Irongray Church, the, ii. 164. 

JACKSON, Dean of Christ Church, 

i- 15- 

Janin, Jules, iii. 6. 

Jelf, Dr., Canon of Christ Church, 
ii. 152-153. 

Jersey, Sarah, Countess of, iii. 8-9. 

Jerusalem, Bishopric of, i. 163. 

Jeune, Dr. Francis, Master of Pem- 
broke College, afterwards Bishop 
of Peterborough, ii. 6; iii. 161- 

Jocelyn, Lady Frances Cowper, Vis- 
countess, iii. 140. 

Johnson, Mr., of Akeley Heads, ii. 

Jolliffe, Colonel Hylton, i. 25. 

Jones, Anna Maria Shipley, Lady, i. 
6, 13, 16 ; ii. 144. 

Mr., of Branxton, ii. 280. 

Sir William, i. 6. 

Jowett, Rev. Benjamin, tutor and 
Master of Balliol, i. 402, 404, 420, 
439, 47 2 I " 221, 222. 

Joyce, Miss, iii. 95. 


KEITH, Lady, iii. 26. 
Kershaw, Rev. E., and Mrs., ii. 388. 
Kielder, ii. 342. 

Kilvert, Rev. Robert, i. 167, 172, 

2 E 



Kilvert, Thermuthis Coleman, Mrs. 

Robert, i. 168. 
King's Meadows, ii. 357. 
Kirk-Newton, ii. 362. 
Knaresborough, ii. 332. 
Knebel, Mademoiselle, ii. 387. 
Knox, Mrs. John, ii. 274. 
Konigsfelden, iii. 108. 
Kuper, Mrs. and Miss, iii. 338, 339. 


LABRE, the Venerable, ii. 443. 
Landor, Julia Thuillier, Mrs., ii. 92, 

Walter Savage, i. 16, 18, 26, 

37, 265-268, 270, 277, 289, 292, 

510; ii. III-H2, 407-409. 
Laire, M., the antiquary, i. 324. 
Lamarre, M., ii. 404-405. 
Lamartine, Alphonse de, iii. 383. 
Langford, Elizabeth, Viscountess, 

iii. 129. 
Larmignac, Mademoiselle Martine 

de, ii. 193, 505. 
Large, Mrs., iii. 309, 310. 
Lawley, Hon. and Rev. Stephen, ii. 


Lawrence, Sir Thomas, i. 21. 
Lea, Mary, i. 50, 54, 60, 78, 117, 

122, 124, 150, 171, 205, 487. 
Lefevre, Sir John Shaw, ii. 213, 454. 
Legh of Lyme, Emily Wodehouse, 

Mrs., iii. 113, 116. 
Lehmann, Dr., i. 9, n. 
Leigh, Miss Theodosia, i. 178. 
Lennox, Lady Arthur, ii. 354. 

Miss Ethel, ii. 354. 
Le Puy, iii. 149, 
L'Estelle, ii. 480, 487. 
Le Strange, Hamon Styleman, of 

Hunstanton, ii. 137. 
Leslie, Lady, ii. 322-324. 

Leuk, Baths of, i. 460. 

Leycester, Miss Emma Theodosia, 

i. 114, 500; ii. 477-481. 
Mr. and Mrs. Henry, of White 

Place, ii. 156-157. 
Judge Hugh, i. 141. 

Maria, youngest daughter of 
Rev. Oswald, i. 33. 

Miss Charlotte, i. 114, 317, 376, 
450, 454-458, 480, 487, 499 ; ii. 33, 
161, 289, 479 ; iii. 200, 208-221, 
322, 397, 398. 

Miss Georgiana, iii. 200. 

Mrs. Oswald (Elizabeth White), 
i. 102, 126-142, 209, 228-229,272- 

Rev. Oswald, Rector of Stoke 

upon Terne, i. 44, 61, 126, 207-208. 

Ralph, of Toft, i. 317. 

Mrs. Susannah, wife of Ralph 

Leycester of Toft, i. 66. 

Lichfield, ii. 330. 

Liddell, Miss Amelia, ii. 264, 271. 

Hon. Colonel Augustus, iii. 367. 

Hon. Mrs. Augustus, iii. 367. 

Miss Charlotte, ii. 264, 271. 

Charlotte Lyon, Mrs., i. 283; 

ii. 263, 271 ; iii. 8, 171. 

Edward, iii. 365-368. 

Hon. George, ii. 262, 263, 318, 


Hon. Mrs. George, ii. 263, 318. 

Hon. Hedworth, ii. 364. 

Henry, Head-master of West- 
minster and Dean of Christ 
Church, i. 283 ; ii. 9, 157. 

Rev. Henry, Rector of Easing- 
ton, and trustee of Bamborough 
Castle, i. 283 ; ii. 263 ; iii. 8-10, 

Maria Susannah Simpson, 
Lady, i. 25. 

Hon. Thomas, ii. 139. 

Rev. William, ii. 264. 



Lime, at Hurstmonceaux in Sussex, 

i. 57-60, 66-75. 
Limosin, Madame Flora, Hi. 311, 

339. 349- 

Lincluden Abbey, ii. 164. 
Lind, Madame Jenny, i. 236. 
Lindsay, Lady Margaret, iii. 27. 
Liszt, Franz, ii. 389. 
Londonderry, Frances Anne, Mar- 

chioness of, iii. 9. 

- Mary, Marchioness of, iii. 270. 
Lothian, Lady Cecil Talbot, widow 

of the 7th Marquis of, i. 339, 356 ; 
ii. 398-404, 409, 444 ; iii. 153, 270, 
287, 294, 298. 

- William Schomberg, 8th Mar- 
quis of, iii. 47. 

- Constance, Marchioness of, iii. 


Louis, King, of Bavaria, ii. 374. 
Lovat, Simon, Lord, ii. 351. 
Lucca, Bagni di, ii. 93. 
Lucchesi, Marchese, iii. 17. 
Lucerne, ii. 33. 

Lucy, Mrs., of Charlecote, ii. 14. 
Lushington, Dr., ii. 298-309. 
Lyall, William Rowe, Dean of Can- 

terbury, i. 359. 
Lyme Hall, iii. 113. 
Lyncombe, i. 261. 
Lyne, Rev. Leycester, iii. 81. 
Lynn-Linton, Mrs., i. 268. 
Lyon, Sir John, of Glamis, i. 23. 

Sir John, first Baron Kinghorn 
i. 22. 

Thomas, of Helton, ii. 317. 
- Mrs. Thomas, of Helton, ii 

Lyons, i. 451. 


MACAULAY, Lord, i. 515 ; ii. 218. 
Macmurdo, General, iii. 176. 

Vlacon, iii. 383. 

vlacsween, Alexander, i. 171. 

Mainsforth, ii. 309. 

Vlakrina, La Madre, of Minsk, ii. 

Malcolm, Miss Ann Emilia, i. 435. 

Lady, i. 435. 

Miss Kate, i. 435. 

Malmesbury, James Edward, 2nd 

Earl of, iii. 431. 
Manners, Lady John, ii. 284. 
Manners-Sutton, Archbishop, iii. 157. 
Mannheim, i. 53, 383. 
Manning, Archdeacon Henry, after- 
wards Cardinal, i. 98, 339 ; ii. 395 ; 
iii. i, 308, 360. 
Mantua, iii. 337. 
Marbourg, i. 425. 
Marie Amelie, Queen of the French, 

i. 274. 

Marie-Anne, Sceur, ii. 443. 
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, 

ii. 298 ; prison of, ii. 125. 
Marlborough, John, ist Duke of, i. i. 
Marsh, Miss Catherine, i. 407 ; ii. 

289 ; iii. 245-247, 250. 
Martin, Baron, iii. 297. 
Masham, Mrs., ii. 309. 
Massie, Mrs., iii. 113. 
Mastai-Ferretti, Conte, ii. 236-240. 
Matfen, ii. 266, 346. 
Matthias, Maria de, foundress of the 
" Order of the Precious Blood," ii. 
426, 43 8 -442 I iii. 86, 238-239. 
Maurice (Annie Barton), Mrs. Fred- 
erick, i. 70. 

Esther Jane, i. 73, 112, 176- 


Rev. Frederick Denison, i. 70- 

72, in, 280. 

Georgiana Hare, Mrs. Frede- 
rick, iii. 412. 

Harriet, i. 179. 

Mary, i. 179, 182. 



Maurice, Priscilla, i. 70-73, 112, 181- 
182, 410. 

Maximilian, Archduke and Emperor, 
ii. 36. 

Medine, Count Battistino, iii. 338. 

Melun, M., Protestant pasteur at 
Caen, i. 321. 

Mentone, ii. 246-258 ; iii. 185. 

Merlini, Don Giovanni, Father- 
General of the Precious Blood, ii. 
425, 427, 442. 

Merode, Monsignor de, iii. 70. 

Meyer, M. Carl Friedrich, i. 382. 

Mezzofanti, Cardinal, i. 9. 

Milligan, William Henry, i. 416, 
420, 422, 493, 499; ii. i, 2, 

I 3 I - 
Milman, Henry Hart, Dean of St. 

Paul's, ii. 231. 
Milner, Elizabeth Mordaunt, Lady, 

i. 96. 
Mohl, M. Julius, ii. 118. 

Madame, ii. 118-121 ; iii. 5-7. 

Monceaux, Chateau de, iii. 383. 

Monk, Miss, iii. 203. 

Montagu, Lady Elizabeth, ii. 437. 

Montbard, iii. 383. 

Mont Blanc, the tour of, i. 458. 

Monteith, Robert, of Carstairs, iii. 

95, 288, 293, 295. 
Wilhelmina Mellish, wife of 

Robert Monteith of Carstairs, ii. 

427 ; iii. 289, 290, 294. 
Monte Cassino, ii. 78. 
Montgolfier, Madame de, iii. 385. 
Montgomery, Hon. Mrs. Alfred, iii. 

71, 96, 239, 280, 282, 284, 289, 

294, 301. 

Moore, Archdeacon Henry, of Staf- 
ford, i. 164 ; ii. 132. 
Morlot, Cardinal Archbishop of 

Paris, ii. 121-122. 
Morpeth, ii. 277, 365. 
Morini, Padre Agostino, iii. 256. 

Morley, Albert-Edmund, 3rd Ear of, 
iii. 145. 

Harriet, Countess of, iii. 139. 

Mounteagle, Lady t iii. 158. 

Mount-Edgecumbe, Caroline, Coun- 
tess of, ii. 356. 

Katherine, Countess of, iii. 138. 

William Henry, 4th Earl of, iii. 

137, 145. 
Munich, iii. 336. 

Munn, Rev. John Reade, iii. 415. 
Murray, John, the third, ii. 133, 134, 



NAPLES, ii. 80. 

Francesco II., King of, iii. 90- 

Marie of Bavaria, Queen of, 

iii. 86, 94. 
Marie The"rese Isabelle, Queen 

of, iii. 86, 189. 
Napoleon I., i. 91. 
Napoleon III., Emperor of the 

French, ii. 508. 
Narni, iii. 100. 
Naworth, ii. 354. 
Naylor, Anna Maria Mealey, Mrs. 

Hare, i. 13, 82-83, 280, 287. 

Bethaia, i. 4. 

Francis, i. i. 

Francis Hare, i. 5, n. 

Georgiana Shipley, Mrs. Hare, 

i. 5-12. 

Miss Grace, i. i, 260. 

Robert Hare, i. 2. 

Neri, S. Filippo, iii. 201. 
Neuchatel, ii. 113. 
New Abbey, ii. 164. 
Newbattle Abbey, iii. 47. 
Newcastle-on-Tyne, ii. 318. 
Newman, Rev. John Henry, after- 
wards Cardinal, iii. 1-2. 



Nice, ii. 370. 

Nicholas I., Emperor of Russia, ii. 

74, 506. 

Nicholson, Miss, iii. 372. 
Normanby, Maria Liddell, wife of 

the ist Marquis of, ii. 93, 204, 212. 
Northcote, Captain and Mrs., ii. 364. 
North Berwick, ii. 357. 
Norwich, i. 116-120, 229. 
Nunnington Hall, i. 16. 
Nuremberg, i. 435. 


OBERLIN, ii. 109. 

Oberwesel, iii. 232. 

Ogle, Miss, the authoress, ii. 350. 

Orvieto, ii. 84, 385. 

Ossulston, Charles, Lord, ii. 268- 


Otterburn, ii. 344. 
Oxenham, Rev. W., i. 236. 
Oxford, Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop 

of, iii. 153. 
Countess of, i. 18. 


PADUA, iii. 338-339. 

Paestum, ii. 83. 

Pallavicini, Carolina, Princess, ii. 59. 

Palmer, Mr. William, ii. 207. 

I'almrrston, H. Temple, ist Earl of, 

i. 12. 

Panizzi, Sir Antonio, ii. 132; iii. 142. 
Pantaleone, Dr., ii. 374-376. 
Paolucci di Calboli, Marchese Anni- 

bale, ii. 388. 

Marchese Raniero, ii. 388. 

Papillon, Rw. Henry, iii. 412. 

Mrs. H. , iii. 414. 

Paray le Monial, ii. 445, 499. 

Paris, i. 318-319, 327; ii. 114-128. 
Parisani, Palazzo, i. 261, 340, 373 ; 

" 55-56 ; iii. 190. 
Parker, John Henry, ii. 9 ; iii. 319. 

Mrs. J. H.,i. 4 73. 

Lady Katherine, iii. 145. 

Parry, Catherine, Lady, i. 279. 
Sir Edward, the Arctic voyager, 

i. 114, 279. 

Edward, Bishop of Dover, i. 


(Isabella Stanley) Lady, first, 
wife of Sir Edward, i. 114. 

Serjeant, iii. 298, 299, 303. 

Pastacnldi, Padre, iii. 313. 
Paterson, Mrs., of Linlathen, ii. 165. 

Monsignor, iii. 294, 295, 301, 
302, 307. 

Patrizi, Cardinal, iii. 76. 
Pattenden, Deborah, i. 211. 
Paul, Anne Frances, i. 25, 26, 30. 
Eleanor-Maria, i. 42, 95, 351- 

352 ; ii. 69-70, 94, 103-106, 206, 

411-415; iii. 262, 266,315. 
Elizabeth Halifax, Lady, i. 

284, 295, 453. 
Frances Eleanor, Lady, i. 21, 

Jane, i. 28, 295. 

Sir John Dean, Bart., i. 21, 30, 

50, 84, 284, 295. 

Sir John Dean, the younger, i. 


Maria Horatia, i. 27, 296. 

Mary, Lady, widow of Berkeley 

Napier of Pennard, i. 84. 

William Wentworth, i. 295. 

Payne, Mrs., iii. 87. 

Peabody, Mr. George, ii. 372-374. 

Robert, iii. 341, 344, 360, 370. 
Peakirk, iii. 165. 

Pearson, Rev. Hugh, Rector of Son- 

ning, i. 120, 411, 470 ; ii. 221. 
Peebles, ii. 357. 



Peglia, ii. 253. 

Peglione, ii. 253, 255, 372. 

Pellerin, Monsignor, ii. 68-69. 

Pellew, Hon. George, Dean of Nor- 
wich, i. 231. 

Pencaitland, ii. 356. 

Pennyman, Lady, ii. 337-338. 

Penrhyn, Lady Charlotte, i. 48, 141- 
142, 408-409. 

Edward, i. 48, 69, 208, 408, 
464, 514; ii. 259-260. 

Miss Emma, i. 383-384, 408, 

464 ; iii. 377, 414. 

Mr. and Mrs. Leycester, iii. 414. 

Percy, Lord Henry, iii. 145. 

Hugh Heber, iii. 159. 

- Mrs. Heber (Emily Heber), ii. 

- Dr. Hugh, Bishop of Carlisle, 
ii. 160, 

Petit, Miss Emma, ii. 328. 

Rev. J. L., the ecclesiologist, 

ii. 256-258, 330. 
Pietra Santa, ii. 102. 
Pile, Mr. Robert, i. 60; iii. 112. 
Mrs. Robert, i. 60, 171, 192, 

Piombino, Prince and Princess, ii. 


Piper, Mrs., i. 103, 260. 
Pisa, ii. 101 ; iii. 52, 190, 310-312, 


Pitcairn, Mrs., ii. 289. 
Pius IX. , Pope, i. 341 ; ii. 61-64, 

289, 428 ; iii. 70, 71, 80, 93, 167, 

I 9. 3*9. 3 6 <>- 
Playfair, Sir Hugh Lyon, Provost of 

St. Andrews, ii. 170. 
Plumptre, Rev. Edward, Dean of 

Wells, i. 179. 
Rev. Dr. Frederick Charles, 

Master of University College, i. 

405, 441, 474. 
Harriet Maurice, Mrs. E., i. 179. 

Pole, Lady Louisa, i. 354. 

- Miss Marguerite, i. 352-357 ; 

iii. 248. 

Sir Peter Van Notten, i. 352. 

Polignac, Due de, iii. 43. 
Ponsonby, Miss Melita, ii. 358. 
Person, Dr. Richard, ii. 376. 
Portman, Hon. Walter, i. 306, 308, 

332, 452- 

Port Royal, ii. 125. 
Porto Fino, ii. 254. 

Venere, iii. 51. 

Poulevey, Pere de, ii. 416. 

Powell, Lucilla Maurice, Mrs., i. 


Prague, i. 432. 
Praslin, Duchesse de, i. 245 ; iii. 

Prat, Marquis and Marquise de, ii. 


Preignier, Marquise du, ii. 118. 
Prentiss, Mr., i. 164. 
Prosperi, Monsignor, iii. 70. 
Pusey, Dr. Edward Bouverie, iii. 70. 


RAMSAY, Mrs., iii. 193, 198. 
Rathdonnell, Lady, iii. 83. 
Ratisbon, Le Pere, ii. 68. 
Ravenna, ii. 48. 
Ravensworth, Henry Liddell, Earl 

of, ii. 453. 

Ravignan, Pere de, i. 353, 355. 
Reedswire, the, ii. 345. 
Reisach, Cardinal de, iii. 96. 
Rianzares, Due de, ii. 57. 
Richmond, Elizabeth Liddell, Mrs. 

Brook, ii. 208, 209, 213. 

George, the artist, ii. 214. 

Ridley Hall, ii. 172-178, 266, 272, 

341 ; iii. 170. 
Rignano, Emilio, Duke of, ii. 70. 



Rimini, ii. 49. 

Ripley Castle, ii. 283, 332-336. 

Robinson, Miss, ii. 310-317. 

Rockend, i. 85-87, 251. 

Roddam, Mr. and Mrs., of Roddam, 

ii. 280, 282, 364. 
Roleston, Mary Pierina, Abbess of 

the Precious Blood, ii. 425, 438- 

442 ; iii. 238, 266-268, 270, 274, 

275, 287, 295, 298, 305, 306. 
Rome, ii. 54-76, 387-391, 422-432 ; 

iii. 65-100, 313-319, 359-378. 
Rosam, Miss, i. 504. 
Rothbury, ii. 365. 
Rousham, ii. 150. 
Routh, Dr. Joseph Martin, President 

of Magdalen, i. 447-450. 
Rowley, Charlotte Shipley, Hon. 

Mrs., iii. 129. 
Royat, Baths of. iii. 150. 
Ru.-kin, John, ii. 107-109, 277, 484. 
Russell, Lady Frankland, ii. 8, 


Sir John, of Chequers, ii. 240. 

Mr. and Lady Emily, iii. 368. 

Rutherford, of Egerton, Mr. and 

Mrs., ii. 322-324. 
Ruthven, Mary, Lady, ii. 335-337, 

354-356; iii. 39, 42-43, 47. 
Rutson, Albert, ii. 7, 9, 16. 
Rye House, the, i. 314. 
Ryton, ii. 320. 

SACKVILLE, S. Stopford.of Drayton, 

ii. 137. 

Sainle Aldegonde, Madame, iii. 71. 
St. Andrews, ii. 19, 170. 
S. Bernard, Le Grand, i. 459. 
S. Denis, i. 327. 
S. Kmilion, ii. 494. 
S. Gemignano, iii. 342-344. 

S. Giorgio, Lady Anne, ii. 86-90 ; 
iii. 192-193, 358. 

Contessa Carolina di, ii. 90-91 ; 

iii. 191. 

S. Pierre, Le Cure" de, ii. 420. 

S. Remo, ii. 377. 

Salette, La, ii. 512. 

Salis, Comtesse de, ii. 233-237. 

Salt, Miss Harriet, ii. 328. 

Miss Sarah, ii. 256-258, 328. 

Salzburg, ii. 40 ; iii. 231. 

Sandwich Islands, Emma, Queen 
Dowager of the, iii. 2-3, 109. 

Santa-Croce, Catherine Scully, Prin- 
cess of, ii. 59-61. 
Donna Vincenza, iii. 91. 

Sartines, M. de, ii. 145. 

Savona, iii. 186. 

Saxon Switzerland, i. 430. 

Saye and Sele, i4th Baron, ii. 152. 

Schouvaloff, Count, ii. 65. 

Scott, Sir Walter, ii. 166, 309, 312- 


Sculthorpe, i. 4. 
Sedgwick, Professor Adam, i. 120, 


Selman, Sarah, i. 3. 
Sepolti Vivi, the, iii. 73-76. 
Serafina della Croce, iii. 234-235, 


Serlupi, Marchese, iii. 190, 197. 
Sermoneta, Margherita, Duchess of, 

ii. 58. 
Michelangelo, Duke of, ii. 58 ; 

iii. 87. 

Servites, Order of the, ii. 445. 
Sestri, iii. 187. 

Seymour, Mrs. Hamilton, iii. 395. 
Shaw-Lefevre, Miss Maria, ii. 


Miss Mary, ii. 392. 

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, Mrs., 

>. 39- 
Lady, ii. 278. 



Sheffield, George, i. 421, 446, 493 ; 

5-8. 33-3 8 . T 3 2 > I 5 6 - 
Shipley, Anna Maria, i. 13. 

Anna Maria Mordaunt, Mrs. , 

' 5- 

Emilia, i. 84. 

Jonathan, Bishop of St. Asaph, 

i- 5- 
- Mrs. Louisa, i. 20, 84, 95, 

William, Dean of St. Asaph, 

iii. 123-129. 
Shrewsbury, i6th Earl, and Countess 

of, i. 230. 

Siddons, Mrs. , i. 133 ; ii. 310. 
Siena, iii. 341-342. 
Simpkinson, Miss Emma, iii. 50, 

208, 220, 228, 397. 
Rev. John Nassau, i. 122, 214, 


Miss Louisa, i. 122, 123, 214. 

Simpson, Lady Anne, i. 22-26, 351 ; 

ii. 320. 

John, of Bradley, i. 22. 

Skiddaw, ascent of, ii. 165. 
Sloper, Rev. John, i. 84. 
Smith, Goldwin, i. 415, 448. 

" Sir Hugh," i. 437. 

Mrs. Spencer, iii. 395. 

Rev. Sydney, i. 515 ; ii. 316, 

Somerton, Caroline, Viscountess, ii. 


Sonning, i. 411, 470. 
Sora, Agnese, Duchess of, ii. 59, 

405, 424, 428 ; iii. 95, 253. 

Rudolfo, Duke of, ii. 59, 428 ; 
iii. 95. 

Sorrento, ii. 8r, 396. 
South Wraxhall Manor, i. 272. 
Southgate, i. 297. 
Souvigny, iii. 152. 

Several, M. and Madame de, iii. 

Spencer, 5th Earl, and Countess, ii. 

Splugen, Passage of the, iii. 107. 

Spoleto, iii. 101. 

Spy, the family, i. 370-376. 

Squires, Dr., iii. 262-264, 297. 

Stael, Madame de, iii. 416. 

Stanhope, Hon. Edward, ii. 137. 

Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn, i. 67, 118- 
120, 230, 236, 238, 264, 284, 357- 
366, 383. 393. 42, 439, 471, 481, 
483, 491 ; ii. 122-126, 132, 135- 
137, iSS-JSS- 158-159. 220-222, 
290, 380-381, 390, 497-498 ; iii. 
no, 153, 158-159, 414-415- 

Lady Augusta, ii. 390, 497- 

498; iii. no, 153, 158, 414. 

Catherine Maria, afterwards 

Mrs. C. Vaughan, i. 66, 69, 118, 
210, 281, 291. 

Captain Charles Edward, i. 

156, 281. 

Mrs. Charles Edward, ii. 45. 

Rev. Edward, Rector of Alder- 
ley, and afterwards Bishop of 
Norwich, i. 44, 62, 66, 69, 117- 
118, 132, 231-236, 280. 

Mrs. Edward (Catherine Ley- 

cester), i. 44, 62, 102, 118, 124, 
208, 257, 281, 299-301, 360, 383, 
399, 407, 471, 514-515; ii. 122- 
124, 132, 290-292. 

Hon. Emmeline, ii. 133. 

Hon. Louisa, i. 412 ; ii. 140- 


Maria Josepha, Lady Stanley 

of Alderley, i. 114, 140-143, 411- 

Hon. Maria Margaret, i. 412; 
ii. 140. 

- Mary, i. 69, 118, 210, 331, 383, 
471 ; ii. 8, 9, 10, n ; iii. 4, 281, 
287, 289, 304, 414. 
Captain Owen, i. 281. 



Stanley, William Owen of Penrhos, 
i. 502. 

Mrs. W. Owen, i. 502. 

Stapleton, Lady, iii. 124. 

Star, Thomas, i. 169. 

Stephanie, Grand Duchess of Baden, 

' 383- 38> 

Sterling, Rev. John, i. 70. 
Stewart, Robert Shaw, iii. 48, 49. 
Stirling, Mrs., of Glenbervie, iii. 48. 

Mrs., of Kippenross, iii. 40-42. 
Mrs., of Linlathen, ii. 165. 

Stirling-Graham, Miss Clementina, 

of Duntrune, ii. 165. 
Stisted, Mrs., of the Bagni di Lucca, 

ii. 94. 
Stoke upon Terne, i. 61, 64, 124- 

151 ; ii. 160, 327. 
Stonebyres, ii. 360. 
Stonehenge, ii. 155. 
Stoney, Mr. Robinson, i. 24. 
Story, Miss Amelia, ii. 466. 

William, the sculptor, iii. 368. 

Stowe, Mrs. Beecher, i. 515. 
Strathmore, Charles, 6th Earl, i. 23. 

John, 5th Earl, i. 23. 
John, 9th Earl of, ii. 172. 

John, loth Earl of, ii. 173, 178. 

Mary Eleanor Bowes, wife of 

the 9th Earl of, i. 24 ; ii. 172, 275. 

Mary Milner, widow of the 
loth Earl of, i. 53 ; ii. 178-180. 

Streatham Castle, ii. 178, 274. 
Strettel, Mr. and Mrs., ii. 254. 
Strickland, Mr., of Cokethorpe, ii. 

Stuart, Charles Edward, ii. 515. 

Lady Euphemia, i. 23. 

Lady Jane, i. 22. 

John Sobieski Stolberg, ii. 515. 

Lady Louisa, i. 301. 

de Rothesay, Elizabeth, Lady, 

ii. 280-282, 360. 
Stuttgart, iii. 336. 

Suffolk, Charles John, i7th Earl of, 

iii. 139, 145. 

Isabella, Countess of, iii. 139, 

Sumner, John Bird, Archbishop of 

Canterbury, i. 407. 
Surtees of Mainsforth, the historian 

and poet, ii. 309, 313. 
of Mainsforth, Mrs., ii. 309- 

3 1 ?- 
Sutherland, Anna Hay-Mackenzie, 

Duchess of, iii. 245. 
Sutton Place, ii. 217. 
Swinburne, Sir John, ii. 350. 


TADDINI, Conte Luigi, iii. 83. 
Tail, Archibald Campbell, Bishop of 

London, afterwards Archbishop of 

Canterbury, iii. 35-36, 39. 

Crawford, iii. 39. 

Mrs., iii. 35-36, 39. 

Talbot, Monsignor, ii. 67; iii. 190, 

238, 252. 
Tambroni, Clotilda, Professor of 

Greek at Bologna, i. 6-9. 
Tankerville, Charles, sth Earl of, iii. 


Charles, 6th Earl of, ii. 267 

271, 365- 

Olivia, Countess of, ii. 267- 

271 ; iii. 32, 33. 

Tatton, Miss Fanny, iii. 401. 
Tayler, Rev. Charles, i. 98. 
Tayleur, Miss Harriet, i. 143-144, 

501; ii. 326; iii. 113. 

- Miss Mary, i. 143-144, 501 ; 

ii. 326. 
Mr. and Mrs., of Buntingsdale, 

i. 143- 

William, of Buntingsdale, ii. 




Taylor, Dr., afterwards Sir Alex- 
ander, ii. 466, 467; iii. 295. 
E. Cavendish, iii. 203. 

Julia Hare, Mrs., afterwards 

Lady, i. 90 ; ii. 466, 476. 

Teano, Ada, Princess, iii. 193. 

Teesdale, ii. 340. 

Temple, Harry, i. 12. 

Tennyson, Alfred, the Poet Laureate, 
i. 258. 

Tenterden steeple, iii. 332. 

Terry, Mrs., iii. 375, 376. 

Thirlwall, Connop, Bishop of St. 
David's, i. 164, 437, 482. 

Thomas, John, Bishop of Peter- 
borough, ii. 338. 

Thornton, Harriet Heber, Mrs. John, 
ii. 144-149. 

Thornycroft, ii. 161. 

Thorpe, Mrs., iii. 237, 262. 

Tivoli, iii. 370. 

Torcello, iii. 230. 

Torchio, iii. 236-237. 

Torlonia, Duke of, ii. 295-297. 

Torre, Contessa della, ii. 448-449. 

Toul, iii. 333. 

Tours, ii. 464. 

Townshend, Mrs., i. 96. 

Trafford, Edward William, of Wrox- 
ham, ii. 193, 406, 506. 

Martine Larmignac, Madame 

de, ii. 186-200, 406, 412-415, 500- 
513 ; iii. 53-64, 251-254, 260, 265. 

Trani, Mathilde of Bavaria, Coun- 
tess of, iii. 86. 

Trenca, M. et Madame, ii. 247. 
Trench, Mrs. Richard, ii. 434. 
Trent, iii. 231. 
Trevelyan, Sir Charles, ii. 348. 

- Paulina, Lady, ii. 277, 348- 


Mrs. Spencer, ii. 351. 

Mrs. Raleigh, ii. 351. 

Sir Walter, ii. 277, 348-351. 

Treves, i. 385. 

Tronchin, Colonel, of Geneva, i. 


Trotter, Captain, i. 315. 
Hon. Charlotte Liddell, Mrs., 

i. 3i5. 
Troutbeck, John, afterwards Minor 

Canon of Westminster, i. 414, 

417, 419, 446. 
Tufton, i. 278. 
Turin, ii. 106. 
Turner, Miss, iii. 114-115. 
Tusculum, ii. 391. 
Tytler, Christina Fraser, iii. 368. 


UGOLINI, Cardinal, iii. 71. 

Ungern Sternberg, Baroness Theo- 
dora von, iii. 109. 

Unthank, iii. 169. 

Usedom, Baron and Baroness von, 
i. 435 ; iii. 104-106. 


VAL ANZASCA, ii. 109. 

Val Richer, i. 320. 

Vallombrosa, ii. 84 ; iii. 381. 

Valsamachi, Emily Shipley, Coun- 
tess, ii. 145, 159, 160, 327. 

Van de Weyer, Madame, ii. 232. 

M. Sylvain, ii. 231-232. 

Vatche, the, in Buckinghamshire, i. 
2, 3, 493 ; ii. 156. 

Vaucher, Mademoiselle, ii. 379. 

Vaudois, the, ii. 109. 

Vaughan, Dr. Charles, afterwards 
Dean of Llandaff, i. 214, 218, 281, 
336 ; ii. 213, 260, 414. 

Mrs. Charles (Catherine Maria 


44 3 

Stanley), i. 281, 311, 315, 336; ii. 

213, 261 ; iii. 170. 
Vauriol, Vicomte de, iii. 354. 
Veii, ii. 391. 
Venables, Rev. E., afterwards Canon 

and Precentor of Lincoln, i. 240. 
Vernon, Augustus Henry, 6th Lord, 

iii. 140. 

Verona, iii. 230, 337. 
Verulam, Elizabeth, Countess of, 

iii. 139- 

Vetturino travelling, ii. 46-49. 
Vicenza, iii. 338. 
Victor-Emmanuel, King of Italy, ii. 

Victoria, Queen of England, ii. 286- 


Victorine, Madame, iii. 89-90. 
Vienna, ii. 36. 
Vigne, Pere la, i. 338. 
Vine's Gate, iii. 393. 


WADDINGTON, Dean of Durham, ii. 

M. , Minister of Foreign Affairs 

and Ambassador in London, 

319 ; ii. 109. 
Wagner, Rev. George, i. 79, 80. 

Mrs., i. 79 ; ii. 427 ; iii. 397. 
Wake, Sir Baldwin, ii. 151. 
Waldegrave, Sarah, Countess, iii. 

Wales, Albert Edward, Prince of, ii. 


Alexandra, Princess of, ii. 381. 

Walker, Frederick J., i. 309, 332, 


" Walks in Rome," iii. 388, 397, 408. 
Wallington, ii. 277, 347-352. 
Walpole, Sir Robert, i. 2. 
Waltham Abbey, i. 311. 

Wantage, ii. 222. 

Warburton, Mrs. Eliot, i. 510, 511- 

513; ii. 12. 

Miss Sydney, i. 510. 
Warkworth, ii. 278, 352. 
Warren, Miss Anna, ii. 144. 
Penelope Shipley, Mrs., i. 165- 

166 ; ii. 143-144 ; iii. 125. 
Waterford, John, Marquis of, ii. 


Henry, Marquis of, ii, 362. 

Louisa, Marchioness of, ii. 280- 

282, 360-363; iii. 10-13, 23-31, 

3 2 3-3 2 7. 

Way, Albert, i. 503; ii. 133. 
Way land Smith's cave, ii. 230. 
Webster, Charlotte Adamson, Lady, 

iii. 177. 

Weeping Cross, ii. 328. 
Wellesley, Rev. Dr. Henry, Princi- 
pal of New Inn Hall, and Rector 

of Hurstmonceaux, i. 16 ; ii. 213, 

244, 294-297. 
Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, ist 

Duke of, i. 393. 
Wells, i. 308. 
Wells, Lady Louisa, ii. 356; iii. 

Wemyss, Francis, 8th Earl of, iii. 44. 

Louisa, Countess of, ii. 359. 

Wenlock, Caroline, Lady, ii. 389 ; 

iii. 153- 

West Woodhay, i. 84, 95. 
Weymouth, ii. 229. 
Whately, Richard, Archbishop of 

Dublin, i. 228, 283. 
Whewell, William, Master of Trinity, 

i. 164, ; iii. 158. 
Wickham, William, of Binstead 

Wyke, ii. 217. 
Wilberforce, Samuel, Bishop of 

Oxford, afterwards of Winchester, 

i. 470 ; iii. 153. 
Wilcot House, i. 27a 



William IV., King, i. 69, 294. 
Williams, Captain, iii. 28, 32. 

Sir John and Lady Sarah, i. 

Williamson, Hon. Anne Liddell, 

Lady, ii. 207, 208, 211, 212, 400, 


Captain Charles, ii. 210, 212. 
Victor Alexander, ii. 137, 210, 

214, 403. 
Wilson, Miss, iii. 382. 

Mrs., i. 407. 

Winslow, Dr., iii. 318, 359, 366, 370. 

Winton Castle, ii. 354. 

Wiseman, Nicolas Patrick, Cardinal, 

ii. 486. 

Wishaw House, ii. 358. 
Wodehouse, Miss Emily, i. 120. 

Canon and Lady Jane, i. 120. 

Wood, Alderman, iii. 15. 

Hon. Charles Lindley, ii. 137- 

138, 214, 251-253, 283, 325 ; iii. 


Wood, Sir Charles, ii. 283. 

Lady Mary, ii. 251. 

Mrs. Shakespeare, iii. 190, 203. 

Woodward, Mrs., iii. 209, 211, 213. 

318, 364, 365, 374, 378. 
Wordsworth, William, the poet, i. 

J 77. 499- 
Worting House, near Basingstoke, 

i. 13. 
Wright, Miss Sophia, ii. 392; iii. 

140, 182, 318. 


YE ATM AN, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, 

iii. 414. 

Yetholm, iii. 31. 
Yorke, Lady Elizabeth, i. 214. 


ZERMATT, i. 460. 


Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. 
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cop. 2 

Hare, Augustus John Cuthbert 
The story of my life